


But There's A Twist

by LilacSolanum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abusive Parents, Addiction relapse, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, BDSM, Drunkenness, Fen'Harel (Dragon Age) Being an Asshole, Future Thedas, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Religious Abuse, Kidfic (Kinda), Minor Dagna/Sera (Dragon Age), Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Reincarnation, Sacrifice, Sexual Behavior Under The Influence, past homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22289314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacSolanum/pseuds/LilacSolanum
Summary: Dorian works at a tattoo parlor, The Iron Bull is a florist, but it's more than what it seems. A tropey, romantic comedy, until it's not.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 89
Kudos: 85
Collections: The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Nedzuku's gorgeous artwork, [Floral Ink.](https://ned-draws.tumblr.com/post/190313894732/heres-my-piece-for-the-adoribull-reverse-bang) Thank you for the idea spark, I hope you like how I wrote your art into this story. (You know, later, when the fic is finished, and you see that bit.) Thank you to MuchyMozzeralla for organizing the Bang, it's the first fandom event I ever participated in and it was such a joy. Thank you to [Cavatica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cavatica) for the beta and also dealing with my neurotic nonsense. Without Cav I would have Homer-into-the-bushes my way out of this Bang thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! It's Lilac Solanum from the future, here to let you know that Lilac Solanum of the past published this fic January 2020, back before she knew how pandemics worked or what they even were! Boy was she embarrassed when what she wrote about a disease running through Tevinter ended up, oh, kind of actually happening. I've kept things as is, as the plot will eventually hinge on Archon's Disease existence. This is a brief warning for unfortunate real life parallels with the pandemic, including racism toward a disease's birthplace. I wish I had known. I VERY much wish I had known.

It was the second day of Dorian Pavus’s new job, and he was running late. 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t because he was hungover, which did not mean he  _ wasn’t _ hungover. Dorian had been balancing dehydration and punctuality since he was fifteen, and he considered it a well-earned skill. It was his car, a 970 Logma; black, sleek, and incredibly expensive. Logmas weren’t pricy just because of the brand—they would run for decades, provided the owner treated the car kindly, and kept up with its maintenance. In the eight short years since Dorian’s parents had gifted the vehicle to him, Dorian had done neither. Now that he was completely and utterly penniless, his Logma was falling to pieces.

After twenty minutes of creative cursing in three languages and some literal foot stomping, the car came to life. Dorian drove down the crowded Denerim streets as quickly as he could, which just meant he left very little space between himself and the car in front of him while sitting still in thick downtown traffic. Dorian had searched for weeks for a job, and of course the first place to have him was located in Fereldan’s most inconvenient location: CID, pronounced like the human name, like it was a sentient being deserving of a title.

The Courtyard in Denerim was a giant tourist trap and a sacred temple to capitalism. It was a giant, sprawling shopping center with various indoor attractions. There was an amusement park with contraptions meant to be roller coasters, but were much closer to model train tracks in size and entertainment value. Located in a basement level as a mall-sized aquarium that could be fully experienced in around five minutes. Front and center was a ferris wheel that romantically looked over a food court. The mall wrapped around its eponymous courtyard, Thedas’ largest indoor garden that provided cabin fevered Fereldans the illusion of outdoors during the seemingly year-long winter. It was a popular spot to stretch one’s legs and soak up a modicum of vitamin D. Dorian had stepped inside once and left almost immediately. The scent hurt his head and the pollen hurt his eyes. It was Dorian’s least favorite place he’d ever been.

The only saving grace was that he worked in an area dedicated to local businesses. It was far away enough from the courtyard and the amusement park that things were quiet, and the clientele tended to be people from the city happy to be stretching their legs. To balance that small mercy, there were no parking lots anywhere near his workplace, resulting in Dorian having to dodge slow-walking shoppers while rushing.

Somehow, Dorian managed not to physically push people out of his way, and slid into Tevinter Tattoo exactly twenty-seven minutes after he was meant to be at work. He hadn’t even had his morning cigarette.

Three artists worked in the shop. One was currently tattooing a client, the other was working on a design at his station, and the third was standing behind the front desk, checking out a client. She was an elven girl with short blonde hair that would have been adorable if she ever washed it. “There’s you,” she said when she saw Dorian. She turned her attention back to her client. “Right, then. That’ll be eighty-five dollars.”

The customer handed over a credit card, grinning and staring at her arm wrapped in plastic. There was a small pastel crystal grace tattooed on her inner wrist. It was rather pretty if Dorian were to be honest, the ink mimicking soft brush strokes with subtle shading. The elven girl, Sera, was an incredibly talented artist. It was a shame about her personality.

The customer paid, thanked Sera, and left, beaming. Sera waited until she was out of sight before flipping over the receipt and openly scoffing. She fell into Dorian’s receptionist chair. “Ugh. The tip. Not even ten percent. Figured, she seemed the type. S’why I didn’t feel bad doing what she wanted. Where were you?”

“Car troubles. Apologies,” said Dorian, crossing his arms and waiting for Sera to leave his station and allow him to set up. The mad dash through the mall with his stomach already at its worst had left him feeling shaky and weak, and he’d very much like to sit down. He hadn’t anticipated the hangover, but that was the problem with drinking hard spirits alone. There was no one else to compare your inebriation levels against, so it was harder to know exactly how drunk you actually were until you woke up the next day with a throbbing headache. That’s why he typically stuck to wine when at home.

The gin had been necessary. Tomorrow was quickly approaching, and Dorian had been dreading this particular tomorrow for weeks.

Sera didn’t seem interested in going back to her own station. She pushed backwards from the desk, sliding across the floor on the chair’s wheels. The motion made Dorian’s stomach lurch. “Ugh, cars. That’s why I bike. Bikes don’t break down.” She paused. “Except for when they do. Still!”

Dorian pointedly put his water bottle and leather name brand bag down on the desk. “Why would you feel bad about giving a customer what they want?”

Sera started spinning in the office chair. Dorian grimaced and looked away. “Watercolor’s pretty and all, but its got to have solid line work, or a background, something. I tried to tell her that. She wouldn’t listen. But she was a git, so I did it anyway. It’ll look like pixie piss splatters in a year.” Sera cackled loudly at her own joke. “No! Like unicorn skid marks!” She screeched even louder, and Dorian idly wished for death.

“Do you mind?” Dorian asked, gesturing to the desk. Sera rolled her eyes and finally left. Dorian all but fell into the chair, his eyes landing on the sleeve he’d had done nearly ten years ago. It was faded and could benefit from a touch up, but otherwise looked as elegant as ever. It was a long gold snake twisting around his arm through white lilacs, ancient Tevinter symbolism, and phrases in classical Tevene. That tattoo had been done at a real Tevene parlor, not this Fereldan mockery.

Tattooing had become a respected art form in Tevinter over the past century. A tattoo artist was considered an honorable profession, and pieces were traditionally bought as a twentieth birthday gift. Class and personality could be immediately determined by the quality of one’s tattoos. It was a language in Tevinter, a culture.

In Fereldan, ever a backwards country, tattoos were considered crass. Which made perfect sense as, rather than design a unique art piece to wear on one’s body, southerners would get senseless small tattoos in random spots all over their bodies. The general effect was that of a child who’d gotten into a box of stickers. Some of Sera’s tattoos were of  _ cartoon characters _ .

Fereldan tattoo parlors were often “Tevinter-themed,” as if that somehow upped the quality of their work. It didn’t, and it was fairly racist. Tevinter Tattoo was particularly egregious in both name and design. Everything was draped in heavy black fabric, meant to mimic the look of ancient Magisterium uniforms. The end result was more funeral home than a majestic government body. There were replications of famous Tevene artifacts made from plastic, typically found in stores that sold costumes for All Soul’s Day. There was a huge mirror right at the entrance that was so ugly and so gaudy Dorian felt uneasy looking at it. The mirror was the most offensive thing of all, as there was no era in Tevinter history that was known for hideous mirrors. It was just silver and looked somewhat forboding, so the parlor owner had shoved it in with the rest of the embarrassing decorations.

Dorian had applied for the job while drunk and desperate, finally checking job postings on websites that catered to a less qualified crowd. Dorian had two master’s degrees and had once been a PhD candidate. At the  _ very _ least, he should have had an entry-level job at a law firm somewhere. But the job market in Denerim was highly competitive, Dorian’s degrees were in specific and obscure topics, and Dorian no longer had any connections. He might even have been on a few blacklists. He’d also hadn’t heard back from his temp agency ever since his last gig fired him for mouthing back to upper management. Dorian was very, very good with people, unless those people were unreasonable assholes, in which Dorian became very, very good at letting them know that they were unreasonable assholes.

When the tattoo parlor had actually emailed him back with an interview offer, Dorian took it. He was quickly running out of options, and running out of money even faster. He needed to be bringing in some income, no matter how demeaning the job was. 

He was hired on the spot, of course. Dorian was staggeringly charming, embarrassingly overqualified, and actually Tevene to boot. So here he was, working a job that could easily be done by a high school student, surrounded by plastic knick-knacks that made a mockery of his culture.

Dorian Pavus’s life was going very poorly.

He clocked in and looked at the appointments for the week. Dorian was meant to make appointment reminders first thing in the afternoon, and he started making a checklist. Right as his hand hovered over the company landline, his cellphone cheerfully notified him that he had a message in an app called Eyess, which was famously known for helping men with a certain inclination find other men with a certain inclination to enjoy a certain recreational activity. Dorian was a frequent patron. He sighed and took out his phone to silence it, but didn’t get far before Sera somehow teleported back to his desk.

“ _ I _ know that noise,” she said, grinning.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve been alive for at least four years.”

Sera’s response was another cackle.

The buzzing sound of active tattooing ceased, and a short Rivaini woman named Isabela appeared from behind a station partition. “So you’re late, and you’re flirting on the clock?” she said, giving Dorian a smile that said both “I’m just joking,” and also “I’m not really joking.” 

“I know it’s poor form to show up late on one’s second day,” said Dorian with an unfelt yet effortless cheer. “It’s classic misdirection. I’m lowering your expectations, so that when I dazzle with my future punctuality, you will be delighted beyond the telling of it.”

“It’s alright, pet,” she said. Dorian chafed against diminutives, but as a tattoo parlor owner, Isabela was almost required to use them. He grasped at the pendant of his necklace, a vintage number he tended to fiddle with whenever he wore it. “Things happen. Hopefully not too often.”

“Of course,” said Dorian, trying not to swallow the fact that a woman his age was reprimanding him for tardiness. At least he liked her. She was confident, entertaining, and everything she said had a flirtatious undertone. Isabela nodded at him before filling her water bottle up at the front sink. Dorian mused at her strangely blank skin, odd for a tattoo artist. He’d asked about it, and she said she had plenty of tattoos while batting her lashes, and they left it at that.

As Isabela went back to her client, Sera started bothering the tattoo artist who was trying to mind his own business. “Fenris, find the new guy’s profile, yeah?”

“What?” said Fenris. Fenris was a dark-skinned elf with a tattoo of a strange geometric pattern that ran in metallic lines throughout his body. Dorian had no idea what it meant or what art style it was or how he got it to shine. He’d ask, but Fenris wasn’t the friendliest. Dorian watched as he angrily tore headphones from his ears and turned away from his monitor to glare at Sera, a tablet stylus dangling from his silver lined fingers.

“New guy. Fancy Pants. He’s on Eyess.”

“So?” asked Fenris.

“I wanna know what his profile says!”

“Then find it yourself.”

“Well, I don’t have Eyess, it’s no girls allowed. You have it! Have to!”

“I don’t.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar, liar, prick on fire!”

Fenris glared at Sera and put his headphones back in. Dorian sighed. “Is there some way I can entertain you?” he called out from the receptionist desk. “Perhaps with a very loud and colorful toy? We could find you a rattle.”

Sera scoffed, and Dorian saw Fenris hide a smile. It was the closest thing to a positive interaction they’d had thus far. Judging by his accent, Fenris was the only other Tevinter actually working at Tevinter Tattoo, but he apparently felt no brotherhood toward Dorian.

A walk-in client wandered through the door, and Dorian immediately sent him to Sera, more than happy to give her something to do. When that was all sorted, he walked toward the bathroom in the back. He was stopped by Isabela. “Are you going for a snack or the bathroom?” she asked, without looking up from her work on a client’s back.

“I was hoping to relieve myself,” said Dorian, eyeing the cupboard and minifridge next to the bathroom door. They were filled with sugary treats for clients, but Dorian had little taste for sweets.

“How exciting. Unfortunately, the toilet’s not working. The Chargers said we could use theirs.”

“Chargers?” asked Dorian. 

“The flower shop across the hall, dear,” said Isabela.

“That flower shop is called Chargers? Maker, why?” asked Dorian.

“Find out for yourself,” said Isabela. “Have a wonderful time.”

Dorian shrugged and left.

—

Dorian had never paid much attention to the strange CID flower shop, other than to wonder how it stayed open in such an unexpected location. As he walked in through the rare CID storefront door, he realized it was the strangest flower shop he’d ever seen.

The walls were painted a steel blue, making it feel more like a car shop than an open air garden. There were action figures everywhere, some hanging off of things as if they were mid-rescue. The wall art was all framed vintage ads for things like shaving cream or workout equipment. Dorian walked through the shop slowly, taking everything in. The general theme seemed to be “Flowers: But This Time, They’re For Men.”

His eyes fell upon the cash register, where he saw impulse purchase bins with enamel pins, fake flowers, and tiny stuffed nug keychains. The closer Dorian looked, the more he realized tons of the merchandise was pride themed, particularly the nugs. To the left of the register was a bouquet filled with pink, blue, and white flowers carefully placed around a trans pride flag that said “It’s a boy!” Dorian smiled to himself. Denerim was cold and soggy and lifeless, but it was much more progressive than Imperialist influenced Tevinter, and Dorian would never tire of seeing queer pride normalized.

Someone lumbered up to the counter, interrupting Dorian’s inner musings. Dorian had to struggle to keep his face blank. The man was qunari, which wasn’t particularly notable in Denerim, but this man was  _ large _ . Dorian always wondered exactly how tall qunari could grow. Now he knew.

The man was also giant in every other sense, his pink button down shirt barely covering his bulging arm muscles. He wasn’t the sort of fashionably fit Dorian looked for, muscles sculpted carefully in gyms and revealed with keto diets. The qunari had a gut to match his size, and looked like he could tow a car by himself. His skin was a mysterious criss cross of scars. If there was to be a flower shop catering to fragile masculinity, you’d absolutely want this guy as a florist.

“Hey. How can I help you?” he asked, his voice easygoing but gruff. Dorian found he had to collect himself. He wasn’t Dorian’s type for the long term, but he’d absolutely have him for an evening.

“I’m afraid I’m not a customer,” said Dorian. “Isabela said you are acting as our restroom host.”

“Yeah? Getting some ink today?”

“I’m not a client. I’m working there,” said Dorian. He rubbed at his eyes, which were watering. “Answering phones and the like.” 

“Really? HEY KREM!” shouted the florist, his voice so loud that Dorian jumped in surprise. “T-Tat hired a new phones guy!”

“T-Tat?” Dorian muttered to himself in disbelief while someone new emerged from a back room. Not only was he working an after-school job in his thirties, it was an after-school job that apparently went by  _ T-Tat. _ He had a lot to drink about tonight.

The second employee was a fellow Tevinter. He was short and slight, hilariously so compared to the qunari. They looked like father and toddler, even though the smaller human had a full beard. He looked Dorian up and down. “Isabela somehow roped in another Tevinter to work there?” he said in Tevene. “That place is embarrassing. I’ll tell her you deserve an immediate raise.”

He could tell the comment was made in solidarity, but it felt like salt in a wound all the same. “Yes, well, what is a foreigner meant to do but enforce uncomfortable stereotypes in exchange for money? I’m honoring a proud tradition,” Dorian replied in Fereldan for the Qunari’s sake. He scanned the store. “Where is this rumored restroom?”

“Back there,” said the qunari, jerking his head vaguely to the left in a way that was entirely unhelpful. “T-Tat had to let go their old phones guy back when Archon’s broke out,” he said. “Pretty much any storefront down here even remotely Tevinter took a hit. Glad to hear business picked back up.”

Dorian stiffened. Archon’s Plague had hit Tevinter two years ago — a sickness that came on hard and fast and spread so quickly that tens of thousands died before proper research could be conducted. Even now, doctors could only slow its process, not cure it. It was not Dorian’s favorite topic, especially not today. He sniffed, his sinuses rapidly growing irritated, and headed toward where he was directed. The qunari called after him. “Dogs or flowers?”

“Beg pardon?”

“You’re allergic to something. It’s either the dog or the flowers.”

“Dog?” Dorian said. He glanced around the flower shop again, and then realized there was a small bed covered with a gauzy canopy. In it was a giant, terrifying black mabari wearing a collar made from plastic pearls. Dorian forced down an eye roll. Fereldan was obsessed with dogs, and they could be found in the oddest places. “It’s not the dog. I am forever plagued by plants.”

The qunari leaned against the counter.  “Shit. Dog we can always bring to the back. Flowers get a little complicated, but there are solutions. Any flowers in specific?” 

Dorian sighed, growing irritated by the increasing unpleasantness in his sinuses. “Does it matter! Flowers, weeds, trees, particularly if it grows in this country. Not much of a concern, of course, as spring and summer take place over a brisk seventy-two hour period. Now, if you wouldn’t mind?” he said, his tone coming off much harsher than he intended.

“Be my guest,” said Bull evenly, seemingly unaffected. Dorian identified the bathroom door, and all but stormed toward it.

Once he’d finished, he took some time by the sink to collect himself. The florists were kind, but they had barely shared five minutes of polite conversation before Dorian snapped at them. As desperate as he was for money, taking a job so far beneath him was taking a mental toll Dorian did not anticipate.  He needed a cigarette, a drink, and perhaps even a cry.  He sighed, running a hand down his face. He needed to pull himself together. There were worse fates than working at a small business, and Dorian’s own choices led him here. He took a deep breath, pulled back his shoulders, and walked back into the flower shop.

The Tevinter boy had disappeared to the back, but the qunari was still at the front counter. “I was a bit brusque. I apologize. Today has not gone well for me.” Dorian said, sounding as casual as he could manage. He stuck out his hand. “Dorian Pavus. I don’t believe I actually introduced myself.”

The qunari took his hand and shook it, his handshake firm and sure. “Bull,” he said. They let their hands drop, and Bull didn’t elaborate on the name. Dorian didn’t press it. If Bull wanted just the one moniker, he could have it. He was a giant, strongman florist who kept a dog at his shop and gave her jewelry. The man was clearly marching by the beat of his own drummer, and that drummer was in an entire marching band going in their own direction. “Pavus, huh? Like  _ the _ Pavuses?”

“Perhaps. Do you know much about Tevinter politics?”

“I know about some historical Pavuses. I watch a lot of documentaries,” Bull said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a travel sized packet of allergy medicine. “Take this. In case you have to piss again.”

“You have such a delicate way with words,” said Dorian, taking the packet and opening it.

“There’s a water cooler by the door,” said Bull. “We get a lot of clueless guys walking in having never seen a damn flower in their lives. Sometimes they find out they have a reaction. We hand those out, tell ‘em to go walk around and come back in an hour.”

Dorian dry swallowed the pills while Bull was talking. Bull watched with raised eyebrows, then grinned. “You’ve got a gift for getting things down your throat.”

Dorian sighed. Maybe the man wasn’t as charming as he thought. “I’ll be ignoring that.”

The other employee returned to the counter. “You’re not going to introduce me?” he asked Bull.

“Do it yourself.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of manners?”

“Heard of ‘em. Wasn’t impressed.”

The employee sighed heavily, then turned to Dorian. “Cremisius Aclassi. Nice to meet you.”

“His name is Krem,” said Bull.

“It’s not,” said Krem flatly. “It’s Cremisius.”

“Don’t you have orders to fill out,  _ Krem _ ?” said Bull.

“That’s something store managers normally do, but here you are, out here flirting. I’m overworked.”

Bull glared at him. “I let you go home yesterday because you had the hiccups.”

“They hurt!” whined Krem.

Dorian sneezed twice, and then sniffed miserably. “I should be going. Lovely to meet you both,” he said, nodding toward them and heading back to ‘T-Tat.’

When Dorian was halfway through the hallway separating Tevinter Tattoo and Chargers, he heard his name. He turned around, coming face to face with Bull holding a red and green flower.

“Embrium,” he said, holding it toward Dorian. “It’s a type of orchid, which have pretty low pollen levels. Shouldn’t bother you, but let me know if it does.”

Dorian slowly took it from him. “Thank you.”

Bull shrugged. “You said you were having a crap day. You should get something pretty.”

“That’s very kind,” said Dorian, somewhat embarrassed at how sincerely touched he felt. It had been a long time since he’d received someone’s voluntary goodwill.

“No problem,” he said. “See you around, Dorian Pavus.”

Dorian returned to T-Tat staring at the embrium. Isabela was doing something at the front desk, her client taking a break and eating a chocolate bar. She glanced up at him and noticed his flower.

“Bull must have liked you,” she said.

“He’s a fascinating man,” said Dorian.

“That he is,” said Isabela. She smiled fondly. “He’s seen my tattoos.” Isabela stepped away and let Dorian slide into the front desk chair. “There’s a place here that does a late night happy hour for CID employees. We go with the Chargers every Thursday. You should come.”

“I might just,” said Dorian, surprising himself with how much he meant it. 

He realized tomorrow was Thursday.  _ Tomorrow. _ It could be a much needed distraction.

Dorian felt his phone vibrate. He looked at it, and saw he had another message from Eyess. Dorian opened it, and decided he should fill up this evening too.

—

Dorian was in the middle of getting fucked, and he was bored.

Picking up hot men on Eyess was always a roulette. He hadn’t caught this guy’s real name, but his display name was Thick Dick Knife Ear, and he was about as sexually nuanced as a horny bulldozer. He hadn’t been completely impatient, and had carefully worked Dorian open. But it had been a methodical thing, and done as efficiently as possible. Then he’d then gotten right to the point and started pumping in and out like a jackhammer. Dorian stared at the wall, far from uncomfortable but no where near pleased. 

The elf orgasmed with a yelp, and Dorian felt a sense of relief. Thick Dick Knife Ear gave a few more valiant pumps, and then slid out of Dorian and fell, exhausted, onto his bed.

“Well,” said Dorian dryly. “Someone had fun.”

The elf, panting, turned and gave Dorian a satisfied but exhausted smile. He really was stunningly attractive. “Give me a minute,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Mmm,” said Dorian, rolling over toward Thick Dick Knife Ear. He kissed him, and the elf returned it with over eager and directionless tongue. Dorian had little desire to explore his other skills. He reached over and pumped lotion into his hands.

“I rather like putting on a show,” Dorian purred. “Would you be amenable to watching?”

Thick Dick Knife Ear propped himself up on elbows. “I’d love to watch,” he said in a throaty voice that sounded less seductive and more like a cartoonish old man impression. He paused. “What does amenable mean?”

Dorian wrapped his hand around his cock. “I work best in silence,” he said.

While the elf was utterly hopeless at the act of sex, he did a wonderful job at drinking in Dorian’s gorgeous body while being gorgeous himself, something Dorian quite enjoyed. It hadn’t been a complete waste of time. When Dorian was done, he kissed the man, told him he was lovely, and said he had an early morning. 

Dorian’s front door was oddly heavy, and it loudly slammed shut the moment Dorian’s single-use paramor left his too large, too open, too expensive condo.

Dorian was suddenly alone, swimming in space and silence.

He fumbled for his phone, using it to send music blaring through his speakers. 

Once Dorian had enough noise in his space to relax, he cleaned up, showered, and comfortably sat himself at his desk with a full glass of wine. He habitually swirled it at the stem, ruefully remembering wine tastings past. This was no crafted syrah from a centuries-old Orlesian vineyard, this was a mystery blend titled “Midnight” and came in a five liter box. Aerating the drink only released scents of frugality and mistakes.

Dorian navigated toward his email account, which he made a point of not checking on his phone. It was best done all at once in a safe place, as Dorian’s inbox was full of job rejections, disappointing news, and advertisements for beautiful luxury items he could no longer afford, no matter how tempting the sale. 

Dorian held back hope as the website loaded, then released the hold when the predicted disappointment took over. His inbox was more of the same: a note from a job inquiry that let him know the position had been filled; a reminder that his electricity bill was due and to please try paying it this month; an advertisement for the 978 fall line of designer shoes that cost eight hundred dollars at a minimum. That was all par for the course. What Dorian had hoped to see was an email from one Dr. Gerald Axton, a professor he’d worked with in grad school, whom he had asked to write a recommendation letter. Axton had yet to respond. He was a busy man, but as of today, it had been a month since Dorian had sent his request.

Dorian took a few healthy swallows of his wine. He set down the glass, and started composing a new email to Dr. Axton.

_ Dear Gerald, _

_ I had once admired you as a historian, an archaeologist, and a mentor. I asked you to do a favor, and you responded with utterly disrespectful silence. While I was unceremoniously and, I suppose, infamously removed from study with Gereon Alexius, there are rumors that I am somehow yet a human, and do—oddly enough—deserve basic courtesies. Even a selfie of you giving me two fingers would have sufficed, as it would have been an acknowledgment of my existence. Now that we are no longer colleagues in an academic field, I’ve decided to share with you some feelings I harbored during our time together. _

_ Your breath smells so strongly of cat litter that I have often suspected it is intentional, as if you’ve been exploring the depths of your body and finding clever ways to make it utterly grotesque. That, or you’ve had another one of your ten martini lunches, which is only tolerated because your family donates staggering amounts of hush money to The University of Orlais. It must be triple your income. Personally, I would ask for that money directly, but I suppose leaving your life as a professor would give you no more reasons to wear quirky bowties. A shame, as you must have been born with a rare birth defect that denied you of a personality, and festive formal wear seems to be your chosen replacement. You are unoriginal, unintelligent, and un _

Dorian was interrupted by the familiar ring of HeartShare, an almost universally used video messaging program. There was only one person in his life who ever used it. Dorian emptied his wine, quickly poured another, and slid back into his chair to accept the call.

The face of Felix Alexius filled the screen. Dorian noted that he was still rail thin, but hadn’t lost any more weight since the last time they had spoken. It wasn’t good news, but it wasn’t bad news.

“Am I interrupting anything?” Felix asked, cheerful as ever, even with sunken cheeks.

“Yes, but it wasn’t something I ought to be doing. You always did have a sixth sense for when I’m indulging in my worse impulses,” said Dorian.

“I won’t lie to you, it’s less of a sixth sense thing and more of a you kinda do that a lot and I just happen to be around thing.”

“I’d be offended if that weren’t so painfully true,” said Dorian, purging the email draft from his inbox. He looked at his screen. “To what do I owe this correspondence?” 

“I just like you,” said Felix.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Can’t a bro call his bro without an ulterior motive?”

“Very rarely,” said Dorian. 

“True. Alright. So. Rilienus is getting married.”

Dorian’s eyes went wide. “Not to—”

“Yep.”

“No!”

“I know!”

“Maker help him,” said Dorian, closing his eyes and drinking his wine deeply.

“At this point, the Maker Himself could march from the Golden City and personally tell Rilienus that Ulio Abrexius is a soul sucking demon, and Rilienus would  _ still _ defend Ulio as just misunderstood.”

Dorian hummed in resigned agreement, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nothing to do, I suppose,” said Dorian. “We’ll all continue to pray for him to come to his senses.” Dorian paused, studying the screen. “Does this mean you’ll be heading down to Fereldan?”

Felix smiled, not bitterly, but not with happiness. “Traveling isn’t in the stars for me.”

“I suppose,” said Dorian softly. “It was insensitive to ask.”

“Rilienus said the same thing, though with a lot more words, hand gestures, and grand declarations. You know how he is.”

“He could make a mountain out of a nug-hill, then make that mountain into a festive island,” said Dorian. “I’m sure his apology took no less than twenty minutes.”

“Closer to forty-five,” said Felix, grinning. His expression grew more somber. “He said your phone number doesn’t work anymore.”

Dorian sighed. Felix was vaguely aware of Dorian’s various financial troubles, but Dorian did his best to hide them from his friend. Felix had more than enough of his own problems. He didn’t need Dorian’s. “There were some issues with my former phone company, namely that they wanted me to pay for their services. Quite unreasonable, I feel. The line was cancelled, and I’m with a new company. It’s pay-as-you-go. Very quaint.”

“Ahh,” said Felix. He didn’t offer any other comment besides that. Dorian was grateful. “Rilienus says he misses you. He also then clarified he doesn’t miss you romantically, that that was years ago, even if I didn’t say anything about that at all. But just so you know, he does miss you, but he does  _ not _ want to bang.”

Dorian laughed. “And here I was, so worried.”

“H _ e does  _ want you to go to his wedding. He asked if I could get your new phone number and address.”

Dorian hesitated. “He can’t be serious. Ulio would eat me alive.”  _ And so would every other guest, once they sensed how far I’ve fallen, _ Dorian added silently.

“That’d be half the fun, wouldn’t it? Imagine his face when you walked in,” said Felix.

“I’d rather not. If I never think of Ulio Abrexius again, it will be too soon.”

“You should go,” said Felix softly. “I know you think everyone from that crowd hates you, but that’s not true. I’m sure Rilienus isn’t the only one who misses you.”

Dorian swirled the wine, staring at the liquid as it coated the glass and dripped down. “Last we spoke, you had been accepted into a clinical trial. How did that go?”

Felix stared at Dorian through the monitor, unimpressed with Dorian’s abrupt subject change. Dorian waited. Felix glared for a moment, then primly clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them, letting Dorian know he’d play, but not for long. “It helped. Sort of. Kept my body temp down and cleared my lungs, but I would also sleep for eighteen hours a day and stopped shitting. I went off it.”

Dorian sipped his drink and frowned. “After how long?” he asked.

“A week.”

Dorian set his glass down a little harsher than he intended, glaring at the screen. “Ah yes, one week, a celebrated period of time within the medical community,” he said, keeping his voice light and droll in an attempt to avoid shouting. “You have access to the best care money can buy, Felix, why do you reuse to take advantage?”

Felix raised an eyebrow at Dorian, his expression mirroring Dorian’s earlier resolve to not be convinced. “I don’t know how much time I’ve got left, so I’m going to be awake for it and do all my favorite things. Like shitting.”

“There will be a cure,” said Dorian. “Archon’s research has already come so far. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Either I see that day, or I don’t,” said Felix. “I eat my vegetables and take my pills. The rest is out of my hands.”

“You could spend a little more than a week with revolutionary new medicine!” Dorian said, the wine loosening his control over his vocal volume. “ _ Vishante kaffas, _ Felix, your father is running himself to the ground getting you into these things!”

Felix’s hand jerked forward, as if it wanted to rest calmly on Dorian’s shoulder. He let it fall out of frame. “We shouldn’t be talking about this,” he said softly. “I know what tomorrow means.”

Dorian closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “Yes. Yes, you’re right, I suppose I’m particularly sensitive about this topic lately,” he said. “I’ll be alright. Truly. I’ve made as much peace as I possibly can.”

Felix tilted his head to one side. “You know what?” he said. “I actually believe you. You’re not as drunk as I had expected.”

“Not through any fault of my own,” said Dorian smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, gesturing drolly with his glass. They were due for a topic change. “I’ve joined the workforce, and must now schedule any benders around my days off.”

“That’s awesome!” said Felix.

“Oh yes, very ‘awesome.’ I am now working the front desk at a tattoo parlor. A  _ Fereldan _ tattoo parlor.”

Felix laughed, then cleared his throat. “Sorry. Probably not the best response.”

“No, no. That is, in fact, the correct reaction to the current state of my life.”

“Is it at least good money?”

“Absolutely not. But it  _ is _ something,” Dorian said over his wine glass. “And that’s a start.”

Felix shifted forward. “You know you can come to me if you need anything.”

“I do,” said Dorian softly, though they both knew he never would.

“Do you at least like your co-workers?” asked Felix. “Tattoo artists are pretty cool.”

“More or less,” he said. “Fascinating people, to say the least.”

“So you’re going to bring one of them to Rilienus’s wedding?”

Dorian sighed.

“C’mon, Pavus! At the very least, the food will be outstanding. Ulio does have good taste.”

“But Rilienus has terrible taste.”

“And I very much doubt Ulio has let him pick out so much as a cufflink.”

Dorian laughed, staring at Felix through the screen, who stared back at him expectantly. Dorian broke first, rolling his eyes and gesturing vaguely with his free hand. “Fine, fine. You may give him my address. If he actually remembers to send an invitation and this isn’t one of his twenty-four hour fixations, then, well, perhaps.”

Felix grins. “Yes! Maker, please bring some random guy covered in crappy Fereldan ink to Ulio Abrexius’s wedding. I would die _. _ ” Felix paused. “Not literally. Probably.”

“Oh, don’t be morbid,” said Dorian, but he was smiling all the same.

Dorian and Felix chatted for a bit longer, then parted ways when Felix’s sleep medication began to do its duty. 

As soon as Felix disappeared, the entire atmosphere changed, becoming hollow and empty. Dorian shifted his office chair backwards, and the scratching sound rang through the condo like the tolling of a bell. Dorian froze in place. He had always been a solitary man; an only child, educated by tutors rather than a school, content to amuse himself with textbooks and essays. That had been learned behavior, not natural — habits cultivated by the years his father kept him away from the world, feeding him a poisoned version of the Chant of Light in the vain hope that it would make his son more politically palatable.

He blossomed when he left for college, finding colleagues in academia, people of a similar mind who liked to drink and debate. None had kept Dorian in their lives after he took his hiatus. His only true friend was countries away, a face in a monitor, too thin and too comfortable with his own demise

Now, Dorian Pavus was alone again, living in a condo he couldn’t afford, one that had dusty shelves and cluttered corners. Dorian didn’t have household skills, because he’d always been able to pay for a service, and he struggled to make cleaning a habit. He was lonely in a messy home, and it felt permanent, a prison sentence. After Dorian had been asked to leave his father’s chosen private school for fighting (all bullies, all racists, all deserving), Dorian was raised cloistered and cornered. Perhaps that was all he deserved.

Slowly, Dorian pushed away from his desk. He walked to his gallery kitchen with its black granite countertops and stained mahogany cupboards: modern, chic, and soon to be sold. He tried not to think about it. He poured himself one more glass of wine and went to his bed, searching for his television remote, desperate for a voice other than his own.

He pulled up a stream dedicated to classic Orlesian films, comforted by their black-and-white worlds. Absently, he picked up the pendant he’d been wearing before Thick Dick Knife Ear had arrived. He held it in his hand. It was heavier than it looked, strangely warm, and perfectly shaped for his palm. He closed his eyes, letting the singsong lilt of Orlesian wash over him, tucking away the part of his brain that held language comprehension and opting to just listen to its tones.

He set his glass on his bedside table, giving in to his exhaustion. He could sleep, he could face tomorrow, and he could work this job until he found something else. He’d gone through tunnels that were darker and longer, and he’d get through this as he had so many other things. They were nearing the end of 978. 979 would be the year of Dorian Pavus. Besides, the crew at Tevinter Tattoo weren’t bad people, and they had intriguing friends. 

Dorian closed his eyes and waited for sleep, thinking of embriums.


	2. Chapter Two

Slowing down his consumption of alcohol and allowing himself rest meant Dorian woke early enough to test his car’s ignition. It had eventually gotten Dorian home from CID, but Dorian had to fight with it before it bothered to turn on. Two well-meaning men stopped to offer Dorian help, but we waved them away. He refused to play into the stereotypes of well-dressed gay men knowing nothing about cars, even if he absolutely was a well-dressed gay man who knew nothing about cars. Dorian Pavus was well aware that pride would be the death of him, but he refused to admit it.

When the Longma responded to his ignition key with nothing but sputter, Dorian resigned himself to leaving early and catching a bus.

Dorian had taken public transportation a few times before, but always in Tevinter, when trains ran frequently from bright, open air stations. Taking a bus in Denerim was a jarring experience. The seats were upholstered in hideous carpet-esque fabric they must have scraped off the floor of a bowling alley, there was a babbling toddler who kept staring at directly at Dorian, and people kept stopping the bus once every block as if Fereldans were incapable of walking for more than ten feet. He couldn’t get off fast enough.

The bus was either going to get him to CID twenty-five minutes before his shift started or five minutes after, so Dorian found himself with plenty of once healthy and thriving time that he now had to unfortunately kill. The first thing he was going to do with his paycheck was fix his car. Providing his paycheck managed to cover more than the cost of the diagnostic.

There was a coffee shop near T-Tat, a small local chain that Dorian liked. He stood in line, eyeing the pour over option, and knowing the extra three dollars was too rich for his blood. He ordered a simple cup of coffee, sat down in a corner, and tried not to show visible disappointment. The coffee was warm rather than hot and somewhat stale. Dorian would have done better with the more regulated national chains, but to get there, he would have had to fight through further throngs of Slow Walkers, and Dorian just didn’t have the energy.

He opened up a paper on theoretical dimensional resonance in soil sediment while waiting for the minutes to pass by. As he did, he heard two familiar voices approach the front counter.

“Baby’s breath’s a classic. It works. No need to mess with it.”

“It’s boring. You’re working with black lotus as your main bloom, and you’re using  _ baby’s breath _ ? That’s like putting a bunch of frilly pink heart stickers on a machine gun! Wait, no, you’d actually do that.”

“Hell yeah I would.”

“You know what I mean!”

“You’re going edgy, I’m going contrast. I’m mixing the old and the new. White against red, soft blossoms against angular petals. You think you’re outside the box, but you’re right smack dab inside.”

“At least I fit.”

“You know I can fire you, right?”

Dorian looked up to see Bull and Krem, and he hid a smile. They sounded as if they were arguing about rival sports teams. He suspected their charm played a significant part in the success of a masculine-themed flower shop inconveniently located in a mega-mall. 

Krem ordered a double shot of espresso, waving away the offer of a lid and gulping it down in one go. Bull ordered a large mocha with extra whip, because of course he did. Dorian looked back down at his phone, but kept watching the two out of the corner of his eye. Their relationship clearly went beyond florist and shop assistant. Dorian found himself wondering if they’d ever been together, or if they currently were. He felt a sudden surge of jealousy. He frowned at his phone.

“Everything okay?” Bull asked, his voice coming closer than Dorian expected. He jerked his head up, feeling like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Yes. Why? Should it not be?”

“You looked a little bummed out,” said Bull.

“Oh. No, not at all. I’m simply muddling my way through academic papers written by men who think a thesaurus is a proper substitution for sense.”

“Sounds fun. Hey, how’d the embrium work out? Did it bother you?”

“Not at all,” said Dorian. He thought of it waiting in its glass at the front desk. Dorian hoped it had survived the night. He was pretty sure flowers didn’t die after twenty-four hours, but he’d also never had a flower before.

“Good to know,” said Bull, tapping twice on Dorian’s table. “Did anyone at T-Tat tell you about Thursdays?” asked Bull.

“Isabela mentioned something. CID employee happy hour at 9 PM, correct?”

“Yeah. Are we gonna see you there?”

“Most likely,” said Dorian slowly. 

“I hope so. Anyway, we gotta get back. Princess doesn’t like being alone.”

“Is Princess the dog?”

“Yep.”

“Clearly,” said Dorian. “Good to see you again, Bull.”

“You too,” said Bull, going to meet Krem at the entrance to the shop. 

  
  
  


Dorian tried to find positivity in his work day. Sera was annoying, but she could be funny, and she didn’t seem to care if Dorian sniped at her. She was comfortable in her skin in a way very few people were, and Dorian respected that. Fenris continued to be surly and cold toward Dorian, but he wasn’t much warmer with Isabela or Sera, and Dorian was beginning to wonder if what he thought was distant disdain was simply Fenris’s default. Isabela continued to entertain him. Today she told an elaborate story about her time bartending on a cruise ship. It involved karaoke, two old exes coming to blows, and somehow a dolphin. It wasn’t a very heavy walk-in day, so when Dorian had downtime, he was able to read the latest journals and keep up with his field even without formal research. He still thought of the job as beneath him, but perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible way to pass the time.

The shop closed at twenty-one o’clock with the rest of the mall. Fenris and Sera finished up with their clients while Isabela finished with her daily paperwork. They closed the shop’s gate, and made their way toward the notorious happy hour. Fenris trailed behind the group, like he was willing to go out with his co-workers but he wasn’t happy about it.

Dorian expected the venue to be as boring and Fereldan as any institution in CID. He did not expect it to be Safari Adventure.

Safari Adventure was a kid-oriented restaurant where animatronic animals would periodically come to life and entertain the young masses. It was cheesy, embarrassing, and Dorian hadn’t even liked the concept as a child. His eyes widened as he was led toward its entrance.

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“Oh yes we are,” said Isabela, an amused glint in her eye. “Safari does CID employee two-for-ones nightly. It’s a way to get anyone in here after nineteen o’clock.”

“Do they got cute things like this in Tevinter?” asked Sera.

“Do they  _ have _ ,” said Dorian with a sigh. “Yes, though not this particular chain.”

“Bet you didn’t go as a kid,” declared Sera. “Bet you had your birthday parties at the opera or whatever.”

“Not true,” said Dorian. “I preferred the ballet.”

The lighting in the restaurant had a garish purple tint, and the entrance was guarded by awkward robotic parrots that squeaked when they moved and emitted tinny, low quality audio recordings of chirps. The music was some generic jungle-esque affair with a piercing flute line. 

Sera, Fenris, and Isabela made a beeline for a large booth that wrapped around a corner. It was hidden by plastic vines that were covered in dust. Dorian grimaced as he walked through them. 

Dorian’s co-workers all gathered on one side, as if they were on a secret sitcom set with a fourth wall. Dorian watched them in confusion, and sat tentatively on the opposite side.

“Bull and Krem sit there,” said Fenris.

Dorian waited for Fenris to elaborate. He didn’t. Dorian turned to the two more talkative women. “Any particular reason?”

“’Cause that’s where they sit,” said Sera.

“And facing the bar protects his blind side,” said Isabela, her tone and expression indicating she was well aware her employees were being unhelpful.

“Oh yeah, that,” said Sera. She grinned. “He’s got a glass eye, and he’ll pop it out if you ask. It’s right disgusting,” she said cheerfully.

“Though your review of the experience dazzles, I’ll refrain from the inquiry,” said Dorian, moving to the other side of the table.

Krem burst into the restaurant, winded and a little red in the face. He looked around. “Bull’s not here yet?”

“No,” said Fenris.

Krem pumped his fist into the air. Bull appeared, equally as rushed, his ridiculous mabari trailing behind him. He saw Krem and wailed with shock and disappointment. “How the hell did you do that!”

“I told you so,” said Krem proudly.

“You cheated. You’re out of breath. We said no running.”

“You’re out of breath too!”

“Sit down, boys,” said Isabela with a smile. “You’re making a scene.”

Krem slid into the booth first, and Bull followed, gesturing to his dog. She automatically went underneath the table and laid down. Dorian noticed her nails were painted pink.

“Bull said the back hallways are faster than going through the mall, even if that makes no sense, ‘cause the back hallways are convoluted.”

“It’s the crowds, Krem,” growled Bull. “People forget how to move as soon as they step into CID. Everyone’s always in everyone’s way.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a seven foot qunari with a dog.”

“You keep saying that, but as soon as people know I’m behind them, they get the hell out of my way. It’s still a damn hassle.”

“Well, whatever, I was first.”

“You hadn’t even sat down when I walked in!”

“I won. You’re buying my drinks.”

“I pay you. I buy you everything, and here you are, asking for more. You’re a taker.”

A pretty bronze-skinned elf wearing a flowing dress and ribbons in her hair came to their table. She had complex Dalish markings, which Dorian saw occasionally in Denerim, but they were still rare. Even if no one had actually ordered, she held a tray with four beers, all different shades of gold, and a glass of red wine. Dorian noticed she held her tray in the strangest way he’d ever seen, gripping it at the side rather than balancing it on her palm. As she set it down on a nearby empty table and picked up a glass, Dorian realized she had just the one hand. Her other arm stopped below the elbow.

She started passing out the drinks, and glanced at Dorian. He quickly looked away. She smiled and stood in front of him. “You’re new,” she said.

“Dorian Pavus,” he said. His arm habitually jerked forward to offer a handshake, but he quickly realized she was holding the glass of wine, and that that put her out of the handshake game. She seemed to notice, and she smiled. “I know I’ve got a stump and  _ vallaslin. _ It’s alright if you want to stare for a moment. I like to give everyone a good look when they first meet me.”

Dorian was momentarily taken aback, but relaxed quickly. Dorian didn’t know when she’d settled down in Denerim, but he was sure she’d been navigating the world while standing out for quite some time now. He admired her blunt and unapologetic method of coping, and often utilized it himself. He leaned back, flashing her a dazzling smile. “You are quite unique, yes, but  _ I’m _ incredibly attractive. Is this truly for me, or is this an excuse to admire perfection?” 

She laughed. “Hello, humble Pavus. I’m of Clan Lavellan, and that’s how I like to be addressed.”

Sera rolled her eyes. “Ughhhhhh.”

“Come again?” said Dorian, shocked that Sera would react so childishly to Lavellan’s perfectly reasonable request.

“She’s just so  _ elfy. _ ”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? A surprise awaits.”

“Shut up,” she said. “I’m a person first.”

“I am sometimes surprised she’s comfortable working with me,” said Fenris.

“’Cause  _ you’re  _ not elfy,” she said.

“ _ Dirthala-ma, _ ” said Lavellan. Dorian was beginning to worry, but then Lavellan reached over, took Sera’s beer, and swallowed nearly half of it before setting it back down. Sera gave Lavellan two fingers. Relieved, Dorian realized that their relationship was playful.

“Aren’t you working?” asked Fenris.

She waved her hand dismissively. “And what are you drinking, Dorian Pavus?”

Dorian thought of his empty apartment, of silence and solitude, and he thought of today’s meaning. It was not an evening for gentle libations. “Are spirits available for two-for-ones?”

“Rail only,” said Lavellan.

“Rail is fine,” said Dorian. It’s a phrase he’d been practicing often for the past year. At this point, he could  _ almost _ say it without sounding like he was held at gunpoint.

“Sounds good,” said Lavellan, floating away while her skirt billowed behind her. She truly was Dalish. Even in this ridiculous restaurant, she looked and acted like a wood spirit.

A gorilla animatronic started beating its chest in Dorian’s eyeline, and he sighed. The whiskey couldn’t come fast enough. He scratched at his rapidly watering eyes, then glared at Bull. ““Either you have spent so much time fussing with flowers that you’ve begun to pollinate, or you have your wares on you.”

“Huh? Oh, crap, I put a daisy in Princess’s collar,” said Bull, leaning down and reaching under the table.

“Dare I ask why?”

“She wanted to be pretty,” he said, removing the offending plant and disappearing to get rid of it. Lavellan came back with Dorian’s drink, and he had to stop himself from shooting it. 

Bull slid back into his place. “Hey, are you guys staying open for Light Fest this year?” asked Bull.

“Maker, no,” said Isabela.

“I should hope not,” said Fenris, frowning more than usual. “Last year we nearly had to call the police.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” said Sera. “Some lady burst in, all pre-gamed up before the concert, asking for a tat. We said we couldn’t do it, not when she was all sloshed, and she threw a right tantrum. Worst I’d ever seen. She was gonna make me friggin’ dream.”

“Don’t,” said Fenris, glaring at Sera.

“Right, sorry,” said Sera. “Forget you have a thing about that.”

“It’s not a particularly sensitive phrase,” said Isabela,

Dorian shifted forward, gesturing with his glass. “Now, forgive me, but what is Light Fest?”

“You don’t know?” asked Isabela. “The Festival of Lights is an end-of-year contest held in the Courtyard, a cute little way of having an outdoor concert in winter. It’s coming up in a few weeks,” said Isabela. “It ends in a light show, which is a little like fireworks, if one were to create fireworks by turning a flashlight on and off very quickly.”

“It is not Denerim at it’s finest,” said Fenris.

“It’s brilliant if you’ve got the right stuff,” she said. “ _ You _ know.  _ Stuff. _ ”

“Pot has been legal for three years, Sera,” said Fenris, sounding very exhausted. Sera only cackled.

Isabela and shook her head affectionately, as if Sera and Fenris were her two bickering children. “All the big retailers and restaurants get slammed, but the smaller businesses are either completely dead or attract the more— _ enthusiastic _ revellers,” she said.

“No one’s gonna drive out to CID and pick up a flower order on Fest day,” said Bull. “And if someone’s already there and suddenly wants an arrangement, they’re probably about to do something they’ll regret.”

“But we’re coming down anyway,” said Krem, inclining his head toward Bull. “We hooked up Security Joe with a giant anniversary bouquet in exchange for roof access.”

“It’ll be colder than a witch’s tit, but we’ll bring hand warmers and drink ‘til we don’t care. You guys want in?” Bull asked.

“I could be convinced,” said Isabela.

“I’ll bring  _ stuff _ ,” said Sera. Fenris’s expression grew so exasperated it bordered hopeless depression.

“I don’t think I could physically stand outside that long,” said Dorian.

“It won’t be all that bad,” said Sera. “Think it’s gonna start bein’ above freezing soon.”

“How far above freezing?” asked Dorian.

“Well. At freezing. But no wind!”

“How tropical. I’ll bring my very lightest linens,” said Dorian, knocking back the rest of his whiskey. He started glancing around the restaurant, trying to find Lavellan. The conversation was distracting, but he wanted more than distractions. He wanted to forget.

“How long have you been in Denerim, anyway?” asked Sera. “You don’t know Fest, and you’re a brat about the cold.”

“I came from Val Royeux four years ago,” he said. “I grew up in Tevinter, but did my undergrad in Orlais.”

“Ooooo, so world-wide,” said Sera, rolling her eyes. “Could’ve just said four years ago. What’s a fussy ponce like you doing working with us, anyway?”

Dorian desperately needed more alcohol. He caught Lavellan’s eye, and indicated his empty glass. At least he’d prepared for questions like these. He knew he visibly did not belong. Half of these people’s clothes had safety pins in them, and his socks alone cost $90 for a pair. “Funny story, that. I met a peasant boy who looked just like me, a pauper, if you will, and we decided to switch lives for a time. Thank you,” he said, taking a fresh whiskey from Lavellan.

“Ugh, whatever, be dodgy,” said Sera. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Fenris give Sera a reproaching look. Perhaps he was warming up to Dorian after all.

“Is anyone else ready for a second drink?” asked Lavellan, and Dorian desperately wanted to go ahead and order a third.

—-

Safari Adventure closed at twenty, but there were more full-service restaurants that stayed open until midnight. Fenris and Isabela went home, after Isabela looked at him and said, “So, shall we have sex?” and Fenris shrugged an assent. The rest continued to an Orzammar restaurant, where they allegedly poured with a heavy hand. Dorian quickly found the rumors were blissfully true.

Bull nursed a beer while the other three continued to drink heavily. Lavellan joined them after an hour, bringing in an opened bottle of wine that was about to go sour. When their server stopped to ask about it, Lavellan said, “But I’m amputated and my people are oppressed,” with shining eyes filled with longing. When the server was unamused, she gave him a soft smile and told him the managers knew her.

Bull ordered everyone a plate of nug-stuffed mushrooms for everyone, and Dorian forgot that he hated dwarven food. Though, of course, that was the thing with dwarven food. It was terrible, made only with things that grew beneath the ground, and universally required drunkenness to be remotely palatable.

Dorian leaned back in his seat, enjoying the act of chewing more than the flavor itself, and listened to the fascinating and impassioned debate Krem and Sera were having.

“But the jock harness is a  _ classic _ !” said Krem. “It’s like—that’s like—it’s  _ proper  _ lesbianism.”

“You’re not a lesbian, you don’t get to say!” said Sera.

“No, okay, I get that, I know, but  _ used _ to be a lesbian. Sort of. Kind of like crashing on a friend’s couch for a while when your house is flooded or something. Not my house, I wasn’t there ‘cause of any choice I made, but it was  _ my _ couch!” He slapped his hand on the table. “I slept on the lesbian couch, you can’t kick me out!”

“What?”

“No. Listen. The harness is sexy, at least the good ones.”

“Ugggh. Makes me feel like I’m going rock climbing. When I’m just  _ climbing _ climbing. Body climbing? Climbing on someone’s bones. No, that doesn’t work…”

“It doesn’t,” said Lavellan softly, gently resting her hand on Sera’s. Sera leaned into her with a pout.

“Whatever. If I’m gonna wear one, it’s gonna be a boxer,” said Sera. “Anyway, strap ons are overrated. Can’t do the tricky stuff with hips. It’s only good for freeing up hands, because  _ hands _ .”

Dorian burst out laughing, much louder than he intended. He his body was light, his chest was warm, and he wasn’t dwelling on depressing thoughts. Thank the Maker for whiskey. “Oh, if my father could hear you now,” he said. He clutched his pendant so hard it felt like he was pressing it to his bones. “He was a magister, you know, so we always had to be very—” Dorian dropped his pendant and waved his hand in the air. “Imperialist.”

“Imperialism can suck a big one,” said Krem, holding his beer out to Dorian as if to toast him. Bull and Lavellan exchanged a look.

“Chantry, too,” said Sera. “It’s better, but not really. Andrastre’s supposed to be just  _ love _ , not be all judgey.”

“Hmm. My father didn’t even particularly believe in any of it,” said Dorian. “He told me as much. He just needed us to act as if we did.”

“The Maker didn’t shut down all the spirit stuff ‘cause of sex, or women talking, or people dancing, or whatever Imperialism says. He did it ‘cause He did it, and things are better now, so He wants us to have fun and fuck a lot! With  _ boxers _ ,” said Sera, pointing at Krem.

“If only you could tell my father that,” mumbled Dorian. He pulled on the pendant so hard he could feel the chain digging into his neck.

The lights suddenly got very bright, a sign the store had closed and the staff would very much like it if all patrons would leave. “How’s everyone getting home?” asked Bull.

“Mary’s coming to get me,” said Krem. He glanced down at his phone. “Oh. She’s here. She’s been here for twenty minutes. She’s mad. Oops,” he said, with very little urgency. He sauntered toward the exit.

“Don’t be late tomorrow!” Bull called after him.

“I will be!” said Krem. Bull grumbled something about ungrateful employees.

“I’ve got my bike,” said Sera.

“Which you should not be riding,” said Lavellan. “I’ll take you home,  _ da’len _ .”

“Stop being elfy,” said Sera, but she left with Lavellan all the same.

That left Dorian alone with Bull. Dorian took out his phone, clumsily searching for a ride share app, and hoping he had enough credit line left to afford it. Bull watched him for a moment. “Where do you live?”

“Maker bless you,” Dorian said, pocketing his phone.

—

Bull’s car was as big as he was, dark gray and well-maintained. It was free of any bumper stickers or quirks, which surprised Dorian. He’d expected to see eyelashes over the headlights, or plastic balls dangling from the trailer. 

Bull opened the back door first, allowing Princess to jump in and settle herself down. She was so quiet and well-behaved that Dorian had almost forgotten about her. She was apparently content to hide under tables while Bull gallivanted about CID’s finest drinking holes. If more Fereldan dogs were like her, Dorian wouldn’t be so annoyed by them.

The interior of Bull’s car smelled faintly of mabari and strongly of chemical cinnamon. Dorian let his liquor-heavy head roll to the side and stared out the window. Denerim passed by in squat buildings and sprawling backyards, worlds different from Qarinus’s layers of overpasses and crowded skyscrapers. Bull took the back roads, catching red lights every ten minutes. Dorian would have been annoyed at the detour, but then he remembered Sera’s comment about a glass eye.

Bull didn’t turn on the radio. Dorian only heard the engine humming, the sounds of cars passing by, and his own fingers tapping against the interior.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Dorian asked.

“Just keep the window open,” said Bull. Dorian did as told, not drunk enough to ignore the cold, but drunk enough to prioritize smoking. The dry winter air hit Dorian like a wall of spikes.

“Glad you came out,” said Bull as Dorian fumbled for his smokes and a lighter. 

“Didn’t much want to be home,” mumbled Dorian, bringing a cigarette to his mouth. He clicked the lighter again and again, struggling to spark it against the open window.

“Everything alright?” Bull asked, carefully neutral. 

Dorian managed a flame and breathed it into his cigarette, eyes focused on the red glow. His gaze slipped to the driver’s side, settling on the steering wheel. Dorian noted the tips of two of Bull’s fingers were gone. Dorian’s problems must be so small compared to whatever Bull had gone through. He wondered if Bull had a criminal past, if perhaps he’d taken to floral design in a prison class. It didn’t matter. Bull was kind, his car was clean, and his silly dog was very polite. 

Dorian blew smoke out. He rested his hand on the window’s edge. He was drunk, and Bull had been through so much more than him, and Dorian felt sure his problems wouldn’t bother Bull all that much. “Today is my father’s birthday. Well, yesterday, I suppose.”

“Yeah?” said Bull, noncommittal but still engaged, like he was setting out food for a skittish cat and letting it decide whether or not to eat.

Dorian breathed in smoke, breathed it out. “The celebration was very low-key. He’s dead, you see.”

A car cut in front of Bull, honking its indignation that Bull would dare go the speed limit. Dorian would have shouted a string of scathing insults that never made it to the offending driver’s ear. Bull let it roll over him. “That sucks,” he said. There was no simpering condolences, no offer of useless apology. He stopped for a stoplight.

“Quite,” said Dorian. His fingers had grown thick and clumsy, feeling like wax rather than flesh. “He caught the first wave of Archon’s. I’m told he died within seventy-two hours. Almost painless, as far as Archon’s goes.” Dorian moved his numb hand to his lips, breathing in smoke and releasing it. “I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there. We hadn’t spoken for a year.”

The red light turned green. A car sped away from the intersection while Bull moved steadily forward. “Never met someone who stopped talking to their parents for petty reasons,” he said.

Dorian closed his eyes, and released his cigarette into the wind. It hit the road in a flash of sparks. “Perhaps. I may have just needed some time. We’ll never know now, will we?” Dorian rolled the window back up, staring at his finger as it pressed the button. Traces of smoke lingered in the air.

Bull stayed silent, waiting. The last dregs of sobriety within Dorian wished Bull would speak up and take a moment to turn the conversation to  _ his  _ troubles, like so many of Dorian’s old colleagues. He wanted Bull to say something, anything to stop Dorian’s running mouth. But the rest of Dorian was soaked in whiskey, so Dorian kept speaking. 

“Perhaps reconciliation was never in the stars. He’d written me out of the will, apparently just a few weeks after I left. I suppose I can’t blame him. He shared with me his eyes, jaw line, and penchant for petty behavior,” said Dorian, amiable but forced. “My mother gave me a bit of pity money in lieu of a proper inheritance, a staggering number that was a staggering insult if you knew what I was meant to have. It’s for the best, I suppose. I’ve spent the last two years drinking and fucking it to embers. If I’d had the full amount, it would have taken a decade or more! How tiring.” 

Dorian opened his eyes and looked out his window, trying to keep his voice free of self pity. “Not that it’s about money. What he left in my bank account after cutting me off had been dwindling. I floated off of a research grant for a while. I managed. When he died, I took a leave of bereavement and never came back. I’ve since been politely informed my grant has turned itself into a loan, and would rather like to be returned.” 

Dorian shifted in his seat, breathing in deeply, trying to shake away his thoughts. “Forgive me. I ramble,” he said, as upbeat as he could manage. But he was drunk and ruined, and maintaining ebullience felt like holding a boulder above his head. 

“I’d been a year away from my doctorate,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I shouldn’t be here.” 

Bull turned on a turn signal. The rhythmic clicking felt comforting. It was something normal, something constant, something Dorian hadn’t fucked up.

“Hey. I’ve known a few folks who fell backwards in life,” said Bull. “Not all of them tried to get back on track. It’s damn hard work, but you’re doing it. That’s something.”

“Perhaps,” said Dorian distantly.

Bull glanced over at him. “So what’d you study?”

“Ah. Thaumaturgical archeology. I specialized in chemical analysis,” he said. Bull was changing the subject, and Dorian couldn’t be happier.

“Thaumaturgical? As in old magic crap?”

“Mmm. Fascinating stuff, and absolutely imperative to understanding what Tevinter was like before the Wall. Not that you can study it  _ in _ Tevinter. Imperialism and all.” Dorian waved one tired hand in the air. “Studying magic is to worship it, you see. We must not worship magic, we must repent for all the slavery and the blood magic, even after nearly a millenia. There can never be enough repenting.”

“Yeah. Noticed that’s a pretty big theme in Imperialism.”

“If one isn’t feeling constant crushing guilt over their ancestors actions, are they truly living?” said Dorian. “Though it was ridiculously moronic to build a city on spellwork and architectural glyphs. Of course, how should they have known magic would cease to exist overnight? So much history is buried beneath the rubble, and we’re still not done discovering it.” 

“I don’t know, magic stuff is creepy as hell. Don’t think we’re supposed to be messing with it,” Bull said. “The Wall came for a reason. Fuck dreaming.”

Dorian laughed a little. “The Fade held far more than dreams,” he said. Bull turned a corner, and Dorian saw his building in the distance. “I’ve dreamt. Little flashes here and there. It’s harmless.”

Bull just grunted uncomfortably. People were tetchy about dreaming. Dreams were not as they once were before the Wall, but they continued to be a habit of the mind. But while that habit grew stronger with heavy trauma, it wasn’t the only reason for dreams. Many people had genetic capacity to have been mages, giving them a sensitivity to the pale remains of the Fade. Some people were simply prone to dreaming for no reason at all. There was plenty of research that proved dreaming was normal, but most people ignored it, and dreams continued to be stigmatized. To admit you dream was to admit trauma, to talk about dreams dismissively was mocking victims. It was all very neurotic, but Dorian respectfully dropped the subject.

Bull turned on to Dorian’s street. “Which building is yours?” he asked.

“The one with the glass facade,” said Dorian.

“Fancy,” said Bull.

“A bit. You navigated here perfectly. I can hardly walk down the street without GPS.”

“I live just a few blocks away.” Bull pulled in front of Dorian’s building. “I’ll drive you home any time.”

“I may take you up on that,” said Dorian. “My car has seemingly forgotten how to be a car.”

Bull glanced over at him, a bit of pity finally spilling over his neutral bearing. “That’s fucked up.”

“Quite,” said Dorian. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“You bet,” said Bull.

Dorian went upward to his apartment, not stumbling but not steady. He stripped off his clothes as soon as the door shut behind him, kicking off his pants and not bothering with his socks. He fell face-first on his bed. His necklace fell just to the left of him, the pendant landing perfectly in his eyesight. Slowly, Dorian sat up, and removed the jewelry. He held the pendant in his hand, studying it in drunken fascination.

It’d been passed down in his family for generations, and he shouldn’t be wearing it as a statement piece. In fact, he could probably solve a lot of his financial troubles if he sold it. But he was strangely attached to it, and had been even as a child. It was hideous in a fashionable way, the pendant itself a perfect neon green cube with edges worn by years past. The chain was an equally garish hue. 

Dorian fell asleep holding the pendant, dreaming more vividly than he ever had before. He was in a bar, crudely built, imperfectly heated by a single stove fire and crowded bodies. Dorian was decked in pre-Wall attire, all leather and asymmetry and buckles. The style was late Dragon Age, if he had to guess.

In his dream, he drank with the CID crew. There was Lavellan, her hand intact but glowing green beneath her gloves; Sera, clad in red and skin completely blank; Krem, missing a beard and wearing full armor indoors. And there was Bull, shirtless and shameless, sitting so close to Dorian it was like they were—

Dorian woke up with the pendant still in his grip.


	3. Chapter Three

Dorian had been working at Tevinter Tattoo for a few weeks, and he’d gone from dreading his workdays to accepting them as helpful, if not looking forward to them. The work was easy, mostly involving talking to people, and Dorian did so love to talk. He fell asleep in his too-spacious home knowing that he wasn’t entirely alone, that people knew him, saw him, and perhaps even liked him.

He’d even managed to pay down a bit of his credit card. One of his credit cards. The one with the highest minimum payment. It wasn’t much—a drop in the bucket, all things considered—but it was something.

Dorian had spent the morning lounging in his bed, turning up the heat as far as he could stand it, luxuriating in the winter sun that cast a false bright warmth all over his home. He could almost pretend it was a summer day.

He grew hungry, and finally peeled himself away from his luxury sheets and started his day at thirteen o’clock. He showered, dressed, and decided to celebrate his financial successes by spending money at a restaurant.

There was a little Tevene place a few blocks from his home, the best in the city. He stopped to quickly check his mail—freezing when he saw a handwritten envelope.

Dorian opened it slowly, not bothering to go back up to his condo. He leaned against the wall, hiding in the shadowed mail room, and pulled out the contents.

First, there was a wedding invitation. Then, there was a letter.

Dorian read the letter first.

Rilienus was a child of the Tevinter elite as much as Dorian, but where his parents had set a path for him and pushed him roughly to conform to their expectations, Rilienus’s mostly indulged his every whim. He was a Jack of all trades, master of none, and most of those trades had absolutely no practical applications. He was overly excitable, obnoxiously exuberant, and could never hold a thought for more than ten minutes. He was one of the kindest, most generous people Dorian had ever met, but he wouldn’t trust Rilienus to remember his own address, nevermind to remember he’d felt nostalgic for Dorian. He’d assumed Rilienus had forgotten him.

He hadn’t. Rilenus’s letter was overlong and dramatic, full of condolences for Dorian’s loss, sincere apologies for Rilienus’s own absence, and well wishes for Dorian’s future. It was eager but well-meaning, and Dorian smiled while reading it. He thought of the simple sweetness of Rilienus Domitius, the way he always knew when Dorian was upset no matter how hard he tried to hide it, the way every emotion he had took over the entirety of his body and face. They had been in love once, young and wild and unquestioning, studying together in Val Royeux. But then Dorian graduated before Rilienus, and moved to Denerim for his master’s. Rilienus wanted to continue long-distance, Dorian thought that would only hurt them both. They broke it off. 

In another life, Dorian might have still been hung up on Rilienus, if he still had his money and his easy life. Even then, Dorian’s relationship with his family gave him a certain depth Rilienus couldn’t understand. Now, with Dorian busing to his minimum wage job five times a week, there was a permanent gap between them. As Dorian read Rilienus’s letter, he decided he didn’t want that gap to be a rift.

Dorian folded the letter up and looked at the wedding invitation. His expression fell into annoyance and he scoffed. Leave it to Rilienus to invite someone to his Lake Calenhad wedding with a week’s notice.

He wondered how Ulio Abrexius had taken Rilienus sending a last-minute invitation. Ulio was everything Rilienus was not. He was cruel, selfish, and manipulative. Rilenus saw the good in everyone, but Dorian had to wonder how far he was stretching himself with Ulio. Ulio would have had perfect seating arrangements, and would be furious to find out Rilienus was adding more people. Dorian remembered Felix’s comment about bringing a punk Fereldan as a date. Perhaps he’d ask Sera, and tell her to wear whichever one of her seemingly endless jean vests had the most political patches.

Dorian walked to the restaurant. It was called  _ Prandium _ , which translated into ‘lunch,’ and was an idiotic name for a restaurant. It was decorated just like Tevinter Tattoo, with plastic mage staffs leaning in corners and faded glyphs drawn with chalk on the walls. Half of the furniture was torn, the staff wasn’t very warm, and it was cash only. The food was so good it managed to be constantly busy in spite of its faults. Dorian anticipated a wait, but he didn’t anticipate to see Bull already seated in a corner.

Immediately, his heart rose and his breath hitched, because Dorian Pavus was a very stupid man who was falling for a florist who wore  _ harem pants. _

He rode home with Bull whenever his shift lined up, and sometimes even when it didn’t. He would whine about the cold, complain about loud bus patrons, or bemoan the extra time the bus took, and go sit with his laptop in a nearby cafe until Bull finished closing his shop. It would be easy to take his car to a mechanic, but Dorian was afraid of both the price quote and of losing time with Bull.

It made no sense. Dorian knew his type. He liked men with a thirst for knowledge, he liked men who presented themselves nicely, he liked blondes. Bull was startlingly intelligent, a deep well of knowledge and observances, but he wasn’t the academic of Dorian’s fantasies. He was far from unkempt, but he also had a shirt with rubber duckies on it that he wore constantly. Dorian had initially dismissed his looks, but had come to see the shape of his lips, the crinkles in his eyes, the gentleness of his smile.

He also made crude jokes very loudly and very publicly, ate like a four-year-old with a credit card, and belched openly.

And he was kind and patient, endearingly protective, and didn’t have a judgemental ounce in his entire massive body.

Dorian was pulled to him in spite of himself, immediately focused on his presence, like he was an old habit Dorian had discovered anew.

Bull waved Dorian over. Dorian wondered why he wasn’t at the bar.  _ Prandium  _ made quite a fuss about anyone wanting to sit alone at a table, and refused to waste space for two when there were plenty of single seats available. Dorian slid into the table’s empty chair, assuming Bull got special treatment for his size.

“Hey, neighbor,” said Bull, affable as ever.

Then Dorian noticed Princess lying calmly beneath the table, wearing a vest in lieu of her pearl collar. Dorian stared at it for a moment, and then everything about Princess suddenly clicked. He blinked in surprise.

Bull watched Dorian, his pleasant demeanor becoming something sharper, observant. He looked amused. “So you’ve known me for a month,” he said. “And you’re just figuring out she’s a service dog.”

Dorian snapped his gaze back toward Bull, feeling a little embarrassed he’d never put it together before. “I assumed she was your betrothed.”

“You really thought I just walk around with a random dog?” Bull asked.

“Fereldan is very odd about canines,” said Dorian. “I find it more surprising I don’t see  _ more _ mabari wandering about CID.”

Bull leaned against his chair, holding back a smile. Dorian felt somewhat patronized, but he only had himself to blame. “I guess you haven’t seen her dressed up. I don’t always bother at CID,” he said. “That explains why you never asked me what she’s for.”

“I hadn’t been planning on it. That seems rather private.”

“It is. So do you wanna know?”

“Yes, desperately.”

“I was born in Par Vollen. They made me military. It’s a vet thing.” 

Dorian had already let his expression betray him once today, and he forced his face to show nothing but mild curiosity. Inwardly, his heart was breaking. Par Vollen had once been an oasis for followers of the Qun, the largest ever gathered. Of course, when your so-called philosophical society was very, very similar to a cult, and that cult held power over thousands of people, things grew corrupted. Now, Par Vollen used the tenets of the Qun to run a bloodthirsty fascist regime, lead by the Triumvirate. There were Qunari compounds spread throughout Thedas that denounced Par Vollen, and claimed there was a purity to the Qun way of life, but Dorian thought the only reason they weren’t oppressing anyone is because they didn’t have the numbers yet.

“That’s unfortunate,” Dorian said. A server came by to grab Dorian’s order, and Dorian had never been more happy to see anyone in his life

Even after she left, Dorian found himself at a loss for words. Bull watched him for a moment. Something in his gaze went distant, and then he relaxed in a way that was too perfectly languid to be natural. “I used to live in the alienage. When you look like me, all you can get are security and bouncer gigs, and I couldn’t hold down one of those jobs for my damn life. I escaped Par Vollen for peace, not to toss coked up guys out of clubs.”

He leaned against the wall behind him, resting a hand lazily on the table. “I’d end up walking home in the middle of the night a lot. I can handle myself, but not everyone can. One night I heard screaming down an alley. Krem’d been walking through the damn Denerim alienage at three in the morning, drunk as shit. A bunch of guys jumped him, looking for money. I thought, hey, he’s just some kid minding his own business. Then I stopped thinking.”

Dorian could see Princess stirring beneath the table, fidgeting, her gaze focused on Bull. Bull glanced down at her, then continued to talk.

“Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital, cuffed to a bed with an empty eye socket,” Bull said. “I was pretty fucked up, sure, but the thugs were doing a lot worse. Assholes, sure, they hurt Krem, but they were poor and desperate. Broken jaws and mangled fingers aren’t the right kind of justice.” He told the story like it was boring, like he thought no one should care much about it, like he was getting it out of the way.

“The guys and Krem made an agreement, and no one pressed charges. I got released, went home, and I just. Stopped.” Dorian noticed Bull wasn’t moving. He wasn’t taut with anxiety, but he was frozen in place, like he’d forgotten he had a body. “I knew damn well the only reason I didn’t kill any of them is because the eye got knocked in and I passed out. Couldn’t leave the apartment, because if I could go red once, I could do it again. I sat around and did nothing but wonder why the hell I bothered living. Krem kept trying to call me the entire time. I figured he had some kind of guilt he wanted to get rid of and I didn’t want to deal with that. But Krem’s a pushy guy, and he gets what he wants out of people. He showed up at my door, figured out what was going on, and pulled me out of it. He’s the one who found the dog program.”

It was all very relaxed, yet still mechanical, detached. Princess reached up and put her paws on Bull’s knees, looking at him almost inquisitively, like she was just checking in. Bull looked down at her and seemed to snap back into himself.

“I’m good,” he said to her, and it was so soft and intimate that Bull suddenly seemed very fragile.

Dorian stared down at his hands for a moment. They suddenly seemed embarrassingly smooth and unused. “Then I must thank dear Cremisius,” he said, fumbling for flippancy. “And Princess too, I suppose.”

“She likes peanut butter,” said Bull. Princess’s ears perked up. “No, not  _ now. _ ”

Dorian laughed a little. “I’ll have to remember that,” he said. He watched as Bull gently pressed against Princess’s shoulders. She laid back down, but his time stretched herself over Bull’s feet.

“I like you. I don’t hide things from the people I like. You should know about my shit,” he said. “Plus, you told me about your dad. If you can open up to me, I can open up to you.”

A server set a plate of food in front of Bull, a lamb meatball soup that he immediately drowned in hot sauce. Dorian had never admired the man more.

“I was hoping we would never speak of my little outburst.”

“That wasn’t an outburst,” he said. “When Sera gets shitfaced and starts yelling at random strangers for not standing up to oppression, that’s an outburst.”

“Maker. I am both horrified and intrigued.”

“Come to Fest. She’ll get there.”

“Perhaps,” Dorian said. “I have a wedding to go to the day before.” He paused, absently wrapping his hand around his green cube pendant. “I’m in need of a plus one, if you would be so inclined,” he said, as nonchalant as he could manage.

“Yeah?” said Bull.

“I do warn you, it’s people I know from my admittedly pretentious and exclusive field. They are all smarter than they are practical, and rich beyond belief. But there will be free food and drink that would otherwise be staggeringly expensive, and I’d appreciate the support of someone not so—” Dorian gestured vaguely. “ _ Them. _ ”

“I’ll go if you go to Fest,” said Bull.

Dorian crossed his arms over his chest. “I am offering you fine wine and delicacies, and in return you are forcing me to drink cheap beer in freezing weather while my balls all but evaporate. This is hardly an equal exchange.”

“I’m real good a finding balls,” Bull said, making a cupping gesture in the air that Dorian found quite obvious.

“ _ Fasta vass! _ ” he hissed, pushing Bull’s hand down to the table. “There are families here!”

“C’mon, they don’t know what we’re talking about,” said Bull, grinning stupidly. Bull seemed to delight in making Dorian uncomfortable. Dorian found it much less amusing. Mostly.

“I redact the wedding invite, my compliments to your dog, and my friendship.”

“You wanna take the bus home?”

“Oh, you do know my weaknesses. Fine. I’ll go.”

“Great!” said Bull, and his smile was genuinely excited. Dorian’s stomach fluttered at the sight.

Dorian’s food arrived, and he leaned over to grab the hot sauce. As he did, his heavy pendant nearly fell into his food. Dorian tsked his tongue, and pushed it to the side.

“Alright, I have to ask,” said Bull. “What’s with the necklace?”

“Mmm?”

“The one you wear every day.”

“What?” said Dorian. He looked down, and held the necklace up to his face. “Oh. How—odd. It’s not—have I really been wearing it every day?”

“As long as I’ve known you, yeah.”

“Well. I have other necklaces,” said Dorian, completely baffled.

—

When Dorian got home, he took off his pendant and made sure to place it on his jewelry tree. He stared at it for a moment. And then, slowly, he touched it again.

_ The man was pale, so pale, his eyes closed. He wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t peaceful, he was furious. There was green light, bright green, terrible and beautiful, billowing like angry wind. It surrounded the pale man, imprisoned him, choked him, drowned him. _

_ He opened his eyes, and he  _ saw _ Dorian. _

_ A wolf howled at the lack of moon. _

Dorian jerked his hand away, his heart beating in his throat, like it was running from his chest. 

The next day, Dorian wore a different necklace.

Later, he found the pendant in his back pocket. He had no memory of putting it there.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, it's me, back with a new chapter that is longer than the three chapters before it. Please note updated tags for BDSM and sexual behavior under the influence. Chapter specific tags are listed in the end notes. Stay safe.

Bull was forced awake by Princess, her weight warm on his body, her face nudging his. They’d been together for a handful of years, and she no longer needed to rouse him with the aggression she’d had when they’d first met. He woke more because he knew the wetness of her nose on his neck, and the smell of her body in his bed.

He raised one too-heavy arm to the back of her neck, nestling his fingers in her fur. She automatically moved into his preferred deep pressure therapy position, resting with the front of her body on Bull’s abdomen, her head nestled in the crook of his elbow. He lay there, his breathing slow, measured, waiting to float back to his body.

He’d had the dream again, the one with the bird of prey soaring through an unfamiliar sky, feathers dust brown and rust red against shimmering green clouds that never stopped shifting. It wasn’t a particularly violent dream, nothing like his nightmares where sounds of gunshots came from Krem’s mouth and he arranged severed fingers in with his flowers, but disturbing all the same. The bird was too large, impossibly large. Its many layered screech never stopped, and its wings beat hummingbird fast. The dream was strange, vivid, and _recurring_. Bull had never had a recurring dream before.

Slowly, slowly Bull’s breathing evened out and his heartbeat calmed. He opened his eye and blinked against the lights, which Princess had already turned on. As soon as his eye was open, Princess left. She returned with a shoe dangling in her mouth, bitten gently so as not to ruin it. She dropped it, left, and returned with its twin. 

It wasn’t something she was trained to do, but she was mabari: a legendary battle beast of yore, mage-bred, magic-touched. She was the smartest creature Bull had ever met. She’d learned Bull’s routines, and had tuned into the best of them. _Get out of bed, go outside. Walk me. Breathe fresh air. You’re not deployed, you live here, and you walk your dog because you’re a citizen._ If Bull didn’t get up, she would return with her harness, then his keys, then her own boots one by one (even in the summer, when she didn’t need them, and wasn’t that real damn cute). If he still didn’t get ready, she would start whining, because she was a dog at the end of the day, and she really liked going on walks.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” muttered Bull. He checked the time and sighed. He was up two hours earlier than he needed to be. This dream was not just terrifying, it was annoying, because he hadn’t slept through the night in a week. He really should talk to someone about it, but all the therapists who worked with Par Vollen refugees _and_ offered a sliding scale were overbooked, and a hassle to contact. It’d be a month before he could meet with someone, and a month was a long time. 

The dream would probably peter out on its own. At least he knew his dreams came from his fractured mind, and not any magic shit in his DNA. He’d done one of those trendy gene tests to make sure he was mage-free, swabbing his cheek in his home and sending the kit away as soon as it arrived.

Bull threw on his sweatpants and a coat, popped in the eye to avoid freaking anyone out, and got Princess ready for the outdoors. It was a good day to be outside. The sun was bright, warming up the world just enough to melt snow and release petrichor. They walked for twenty minutes, Princess taking the lead. She had her favorite paths, and Bull generally let her take them.

When they were home, Bull began his morning routine. Shower as efficiently and quickly as possible, awkwardly hunched under a human-sized nozzle, because Qunari-accessible apartments were too rich for florist blood. Feed Princess, feed himself. Breakfast was sensible and protein-forward, bacon and eggs and toast. Simple, but more diverse than anything the Qun ever gave him. 

Around seven o’clock, Krem arrived at Bull’s front door with no warning, holding a garment bag. They each had keys to the other’s place, and while neither of them took advantage of the privilege, they tended to just waltz in when there was an expected visit.

Krem laid the bag down on Bull’s couch and flopped down next to it, grabbing the remote. Bull didn’t mind silence, but Krem needed music wherever he went. Bull let him navigate the streams without input. “You have _no_ idea how hard it was to put something together with your budget, timeline, and _size_. You owe me,” he said.

“Add it to my tab,” said Bull, unzipping the bag.

Krem waved a hand dismissively. “Buy me lunch.” He settled on a pop-punk stream, his unashamedly favorite genre. Krem drummed his fingers along with the beat as Bull pulled out his new formal wear piece by piece.

Bull knew he had been invited to a den of very dressed-up wolves, and Krem was his only chance at looking expensive. He had an eye for fashion, and he could sew. Bull had trusted him to whip up something decent, but as he pulled out the garments, he saw that Krem had outdone himself. First, he pulled out a reddish-pink button-down, followed by a vest made from a darker salmon fabric and embossed with a paisley pattern. The vest had red velvet buttons down its front, set two in a row. There was a matching pocket square, a dark salmon tie with a geometric pattern, and a black velvet tie clip. Bull stared at it for a minute.

“Shit,” he said. “This is fancy as hell.”

“You’re damn right it is,” said Krem. “I made the vest and the tie myself. If you’re going to a wedding at the damn Magi Museum with a budget of nothing, you’re at least going to make me proud.” He sounded more exasperated than anything. “Put it on, I want to see the fit.”

Bull started unbuttoning his shirt and Krem yelped. “Ugh! Somewhere else, please!” he said.

Bull grumbled while gathering up the outfit. “You _bas_ are too paranoid about bodies.”

“I’m from Tevinter., People pay to bathe publicly. It’s not that, I just very much don’t want to see _you_.”

“Never had a bad review.”

“Just _go!_ ” Krem whined.

Bull grunted and waved at him dismissively, but disappeared into his bedroom to change. He threw on his only pair of decorative horn caps as an afterthought. He only owned them to wear at local kink events, because everyone went wild for a qunari in a harness and caps.

Krem started fussing with him as soon as Bull left his bedroom. When everything was adjusted and tucked to his liking, he stepped back and nodded. 

“I’m amazing,” he said.

“I keep trying to knock you down a peg. Never works.”

“No, seriously. I’m _amazing_ . I made _you_ look respectable. Go look in a mirror.”

Bull only had one mirror, installed on the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. The Qun got a surprising number of things right, and one of them was a complete lack of focus on looks. There was a vague awareness, of course; everyone had preferences. But no one ever pushed one idea of attractiveness onto anyone else. Bull was hot to people who thought he was hot, and that was all that mattered.

He had to twist and bend to see everything, but what he saw made him feel _bas_ attractive. Krem was right, he _did_ look respectable. He’d donned formal wear before, had wrapped himself in black tuxedos with white shirts to bounce at formal events. This was different. This was _him_.

He had spent years in Fereldan, years wearing the name Bull, his surname chosen in a too-cold and unkempt immigration office. And yet he still had moments where Bull seemed to _click_ in him, like he was not just creating a person but becoming him, like Bull was the soul Par Vollen had denied him. This was another one of those moments. Rarer, now, but still happening, often because of Krem.

He returned to his living room, where Krem was at the dining room table, happily eating what was left over from Bull’s breakfast. Bull had made extra just for this purpose, and had kept it warm for him. Princess was sitting patiently next to Krem, knowing he was an easy mark for table scraps. “Alright. You’re amazing,” Bull said. “You didn’t give her any bacon, did you?”

Krem grinned, a genuine smile that said he really was proud. Isabela once joked that they took turns on who was the exhausted father and who was the bratty son. Right now, Krem was leading them, in his element, guiding Bull with love and care. He also didn’t address the bacon question. “I did such a great job that they actually might not eat you alive,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. A lot of my dad’s clients are those bigwig Tevinters working in Fereldan. They’re awful. Do you know how much money it takes to rent out the Magi Museum?”

Bull shrugged. “Dorian’s stepping back into the world that spit him out. He needs someone on his side.”

“Right. Plus, you’re completely head over heels.”

Bull grinned. “More like I want his heels over his head.”

Krem didn’t laugh. He was growing serious, looking more like a dad with every moment. “You know you go all moon-eyed when he’s around. I’ve never seen you like this before. It’s cute, but why this guy?”

Bull paused for a moment, considering. Relationships only seemed to cause stupidity and tears, and Bull thought the Qun got it right banning them. He was content with Krem for family, and knew plenty of people who could fulfill his more physical needs. He didn’t have “feelings” for Dorian, not like a _bas,_ and he’d never completely be _bas_. He just liked Dorian. He liked his give-no-shits attitude, he liked his jokes, he liked the way he looked. He liked the way he grew flustered and protested when Bull teased him, as though Bull didn’t notice his stolen glances that betrayed his interest. It was cute. 

(And Bull felt called to him in a deep, pressing, primal way, like they were magnets, like they were each other’s air. Bull didn’t know why, or thought it made any sense, but it was there, a thrumming energy that pulled the two together.)

(All Bull knew they were going to fuck eventually. The rest existed in a distant tangle that Bull would sort through whenever it became an issue.)

“If I’m moon-eyed, it’s ‘cause I’m thinking about his moon.”

“Ugh,” said Krem. “Just be careful, okay? If he hurts you, I’m going to have to snap his neck, and I don’t know how to do that.”

“Eh. I tried once. Doesn’t really work like it does in the movies. Go open up the shop, Stitches doesn’t have keys.”

“Fine, fine,” said Krem. “See you, Chief.”

Bull went still. “Why Chief?” he asked.

And then a memory hit him, hard, consuming, an ocean wave that filled his mouth and nose and ears with unwanted water--

_The Bull is wearing his Inquisition uniform for the first time, and he already resents it._

_On Par Vollen, they wear protective leathers, and only enough to not offend, but this getup covers him entirely. The fabric is uncomfortably smooth beneath his fingers, Orlesian spun, somehow too light yet too heavy. He wonders what will be the first misery: itching, or overheating?_

_Krem is sticking needles into his pant leg, often piercing Bull’s skin. Normally, he’d barely register the pricks, but the blanket of too-fancy material is irritating his skin. He grunts with displeasure every time Krem jabs. Krem sighs, pulls away, and rests on his haunches._

_“Alright, Chief, talk to me.”_

_The Bull makes a low noise, one that betrayed his anxieties more than he knew. “Didn’t know I was a damn pincushion.”_

_“That’s not it. I’ve seen people bludgeon you with batons ‘cause you_ asked _them to.”_

 _The Bull just makes another avoidant noise, wishing he was doing the_ kost-antaam _ritual right now._

_Krem stands up and brushes some errant threads off his tunic. “We’ve dealt with prissy Orlesian twits plenty of times, so what’s crawled up your ass?”_

_“Ehh,” says the Bull. Then, he says, “Just not going as the captain of the Chargers this time. It’s, I don’t know. Different.”_

_He hadn’t meant to say anything that direct. He has worked hard to maintain The Iron Bull, to craft him as a laid-back guy who took blows as they came, and who didn’t complain about much. It is easy to do; he’s learned all that under the Qun. But there is a thing that happens around Krem, where thoughts slip from him, insignificant secrets that don’t betray him too much, but are decidedly un-Bull. Krem never seems surprised. The_ ben-hassrath _agent within Bull is well hidden, tucked-in and safe beneath his half-truths and half-lies, but sometimes he finds himself pulling back a corner to reveal an emotion when he doesn’t mean to. It’s a dangerous thing. He plays with fire even admitting he is_ ben-hassrath _at all (Leliana will kill him in his sleep if he brings ruin to the Inquisition, and she has told him so directly.) With Krem, he nearly burns his hand._

_And he knows he has slipped again when Krem says, “Because you’re undercover.”_

_It’s been a while since he has worn clothes he did not choose._

_The Bull lets out a slow breath. “I’m always undercover. Hey, I’ll finally be able to eat all that fancy Orlesian food they don’t give to mercenaries!”_

_Krem gives him a look that says he knows the Bull is deflecting. The Bull grins at him. “Little cakes, Krem! Cakes! If—_ Hey! _”_

_Krem has deliberately stabbed the Bull with a needle. “Fine, don’t talk to me.” He places one more needle, steps back, and looks Bull up and down. “Alright, I’m happy. Take it off.”_

_“Thought you’d never ask.”_

_“Ugh. No I’ve seen that_ thing _enough for two lifetimes.”_

  
  


As the memory faded away, Bull could hear the flapping of too-large, too-fast feathered wings.

It wasn’t a memory. Couldn’t be a memory. Just a passing thought. It was just a weird fantasy, the result of too many pre-Wall documentaries. 

Krem hadn’t noticed anything was wrong. He just shrugged, one hand on the doorknob. “I don’t know,” he said. “Felt like a Chief kind of day.”

Bull merely grunted disapprovingly.

—

Bull pulled up to Dorian's condo a few minutes later, Princess settled in the back. She wore her vest, and Bull had brought a leash for her. She didn’t need it, but it made other people feel better. 

He shot off a text, and Dorian emerged from his building. 

He was stunning.

Dorian wore a black button-down shirt beneath a dark maroon suit jacket with black lapels. A thin scarf of darker maroon was tucked beneath his jacket in lieu of a tie, and he’d hung a thin golden chain beneath his collar. He wore gold jewelry wherever he could: sunburst cufflinks, a snake lapel pin, hoops in his ears, rings on nearly every finger. It should have been gaudy, but somehow Dorian knew the exact placement and amount to make it fashion. His makeup was more complex than usual, eyes shadowed in shimmering bronze, cheekbones highlighted with gold. He wore boots with a heel, a little odd for a male in Fereldan, but perfectly acceptable in Tevinter.

He moved like liquid, all confidence and legs, aware of his beauty and arrogantly unapologetic of the knowledge. But like so many things Dorian Pavus did, it was a shade too calculated, too controlled. Bull had been trained as _ben-hassrath_ , the secret police who sniffed out whispers of rebellion and independence movements in Par Vollen, who were sometimes sent undercover to infiltrate other Qun compounds. The lessons were retained, and he read lies as easily as he read words. Dorian was terrified. Bull, decked out in what was more a costume than clothes, had never felt more sure of his decision to accompany him.

As soon as Dorian was in the car, Bull let out a low whistle. “Shit. You’re not supposed to upstage the grooms.”

Dorian smirked and relaxed his shoulders, just a little. Bull had said what Dorian wanted to hear. “It’s impossible for me not to. An affliction, really. You look—well,” he said, eying Bull up and down. “I had faith you’d clean up, mostly, but I am admittedly shocked at how _well._ A pity you prefer to dress like a cartoon bear.”

“Eh, Krem did all this,” said Bull. “I have no idea what the hell I’m wearing.”

“I didn’t know Cremisius had such an eye for fashion,” said Dorian.

“He owes me an eye,” Bull said, glancing at Dorian. Dorian let out a choked sort of laugh, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed but couldn’t help himself. Bull grinned. Dorian needed to laugh today.

They began the long journey to Lake Calenhad. The drive was pleasant, even beautiful. Snow in Denerim was stained by the practicalities of modern life, the sidewalks ugly with salt and the snow turning pollution-gray. It was easy to forget that winter could be gorgeous. The sun was high in a cloudless sky, and the evergreens lining the road were covered in fluffy, untouched snow, picturesque against the bright white blanket of Fereldan’s fields.

The conversation stayed engaging for the entire four hour drive. Dorian was covering up his anxiety with story after story about all the wedding guests they’d be meeting. Bull was happy to listen. He was always invested in the behavior of other people, because he wasn’t born _bas_ and would never be done learning, and because Dorian was so entertaining that he could spin a tale about eating spinach into an engaging three-act epic—although Dorian could do with less complaining about Bull’s slow and methodical driving. Even after Bull pointed out that he was missing an eye, Dorian just rolled his own and blamed Bull’s age, to which Bull countered that _his_ car was still running. Dorian had nothing to say about that. Bull made a note never to let Dorian drive.

The Museum of the Circle of Magi was easy to find. It was a popular tourist spot, and there were signs for it everywhere. It was also skyscraper tall, a marvel of ancient architecture, and easy to see from a distance.

Bull had been to Lake Calenhad a few times before, specifically on the days before Princess when he needed to go somewhere outside the city. There was a path around the lake, and in the warm weather it was filled with joggers and bikers. But Bull had never been inside the Magi Museum itself, because he had no desire to walk the halls where imprisoned mages had bargained with demons. He still appreciated the aesthetic: hand-built from blocks of stone, centuries old and yet largely untouched by time. He just didn’t appreciate the history inside those walls.

The Magi Museum was only accessible by driving over a long bridge, one that had been purposefully destroyed in the pre-Wall days to trap mages inside. It had been rebuilt shortly after the invention of cars, replacing the old ferry system. Bull had watched a documentary about it while eating Navarran delivery, slightly uncomfortable with all the talk of magic and torture but completely unable to look away.

The bridge was a little narrow for cars that fit both a qunari and a mabari, but Bull wasn’t all too worried. Everyone else was driving cautiously on the bridge, and if he drifted a little too far into the other lane he’d be immediately informed through panicked honking. Dorian was tense, though, and grew even more agitated after Bull asked him to help judge the distance between his car and the bridge’s outside barrier. Bull needed Dorian to relax, if not just because his anxiety was distracting and Bull needed to concentrate.

“Do you think they’ll have a pet relief area?” Bull asked.

“Mmm?” said Dorian, all his attention focused on the edge of the bridge.

“For Princess. Don’t think there’s gonna be a dog park or anything on that island. Some of these touristy places have ‘em, some don’t.”

“I have no idea.”

“Eh. Guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Bull paused for a brief second, giving Dorian a chance to process what he said, but Bull quickly grew impatient. “Get it? Bridge?”

Dorian sighed, and finally glanced away from the window, the need to glare at Bull in put-upon offense stronger than his fear of falling. “I will not acknowledge that.”

“But we’re crossing a bridge!”

“Your refusal to develop an adult sense of humor is almost inspiring, in its way. One must set standards for themselves, however low.”

Bull grinned. “C’mon. Without me, you’d never have a reason to bring out the whole Tevinter pissed-and-pompous routine.”

“Absurd. I never need an excuse to be pissed and pompous.”

“I’m just trying to provide _support!_ ” Bull laughed.

Dorian sighed again, sounding even more pained than before. He turned back to the window, but Bull could feel the release of tension, and knew Dorian was suppressing a small smile.

They reached the ticket gate without incident, and were immediately told the Circle was shut down for a private event before either of them had a chance to say anything.

“A shame, as we’ve come all this way in formal wear to enjoy a bit of history,” said Dorian bitterly, reaching over Bull to thrust his invitation at the ticket taker.

The security guard took the invitation without missing a beat, his expression smoothed over in the way of veteran support staff. He studied the paper, reading it word for word, turning it just slightly so the seal caught the light. Bull had a feeling he wasn’t doing the full inspection for every guest, but he couldn’t blame him. Bull’s clean but practical car alone didn’t belong, never mind Bull himself, no matter how polished he might look. The man handed the invitation back to Dorian.

“My apologies, serah,” he said, pushing a button to lift the guard rails. “Enjoy the wedding.”

Bull spared a direct glance at Dorian before moving on. He was staring ahead, breathing in and out slowly. The exchange with security was the first harsh moment of return for him, and it wouldn’t be the last.

They quickly encountered a line of cars waiting for valet, which seemed completely unnecessary to Bull. Parking wasn’t difficult on the island, but every car entered the valet line all the same. If not doing valet would make them stand out even more, Bull would do valet, but he did eye a nearby sign pointing toward Circle visitor lots.

He glanced at Dorian, and saw that he was studying the same sign.

“You good?” asked Bull.

“Marvelous,” said Dorian, without feeling.

Bull spoke evenly, making sure his tone was free of judgment. “If you want to turn back, I wouldn’t think less of you.”

Dorian paused for a moment, then waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I truly want to see some of these people again. And where is the drama in catching up over coffee? I am effectively rugged by these standards, and my life will fascinate. I do so love attention.”

“Alright,” said Bull. “You change your mind, just say the word.”

_It is hardly ten minutes after the Inquisition’s arrival at Halamshiral when Josephine starts barking orders and assigning roles. She has Lavellan ushered into some protective wing or another, sends Vivienne ahead to greet certain nobles, instructs Sera to ingratiate herself with the servants. It leaves a handful of Lavellan’s guard behind to deal with the banalities of travel. Dorian and Bull end up bringing the horses to the stables._

_An elven servant darts around a corner, deep in his work, unaware of Dorian coming from the other direction. They nearly collide. Dorian rolls his eyes._

_“How kind of Empress Celene to hire the blind,” he snaps._

_“I’m sorry, messere,” the elf says with a bow._

_“Lord Pavus, if you please,” says Dorian, the words leaping from him immediately, as if they were an involuntary reflex._

_The Bull leans against the stable walls, and watches Dorian with a neutral expression so carefully crafted that even Dorian knows it masks judgment._

_Dorian fusses over his horse, sees the Bull looking at him, then takes a deep breath. He turns back to the stable boy. “My apologies,” he says softly. “Travel gets the best of me. Thank you for assisting us.” Dorian passes the boy some royals, more than is socially expected. More than Dorian has, really._

_The ‘Vint has come a long way in the few months he’s been with the Inquisition. He’d once argued it wasn’t a big deal if he got annoyed at servants, because they weren’t slaves, and they could find new jobs whenever they’d like. Sera had nearly slit his neck, and had ended up settling for a long-winded and vicious lecture with more than a few personal attacks. Now, he was handing an elf half the coin he’d brought with him._

_The Bull pushes himself off the wall and walks toward Dorian. “Nice to see you off your high horse.”_

_The ‘Vint whirls around, offended until he sees the Bull’s grin. The pun clicks. He sighs heavily. “Delightful.”_

_“Hope you got off it safely. Wouldn’t want you to_ foal _.”_

_“Yes, Bull, very good.”_

_“Just saying. Falling off a horse is dangerous. Recovery’s a night_ mare. _”_

_Dorian stares at the Bull with disappointment. The Bull broadens his grin. “I can do this all day,” he says._

_“I just might set you on fire, and no one would think me at fault,” said Dorian._

_“C’mon. It’s funny!”_

_“Hardly,” says Dorian, crossing his arms over his chest. He shifts his weight, fidgeting where he stands, falling back into his thoughts. The Bull has noted his retorts weren’t even creative._

_“Hey,” Bull says, lowering his voice. Jokes weren’t going to lighten his mood. Maybe solidarity would. “Been a while since you’ve done this kind of thing. Everyone stuffing themselves with way too expensive food, dresses that cost more than your allowance. I know you’re seeing all that in a new light now. It’s alright if you feel a little messed up.”_

_“Whatever I feel will soon be drowned in political intrigue and wine,” he said brightly. “A delectable combination. I’ll get along fine, I’m sure. See you tomorrow, The Iron Bull.”_

_A shadow moves above them: a bird coasting in the sky, too large, impossibly large._

When Bull snapped back to reality, Dorian was tapping his long fingers against the side door, mulling something over. Bull focused on Dorian’s hands, decorated in gold and painted mauve. That was real. Dorian was real. This was real. He pushed away the red coats and blue sashes. He’d deal with that later. He had to be here for Dorian.

He glanced into the rearview mirror at Princess. She was focused, eyes trained on Bull. She wasn’t alerting, not yet. Bull was calm enough, then. The flashes weren’t of Seheron; they were of something different, something so confusing that the confusion bypassed his anxiety. Princess still knew something was wrong, but as long as she wasn’t giving him the signals to step away, he was fine.

The line of cars had stopped moving, the demand for valet far greater than the Magi Museum’s capability. Eventually, Dorian’s fidgeting stilled. “Perhaps we park ourselves,” Dorian said slowly. “I admit I’d feel a bit more, well, comfortable, if we had direct access to the car.”

“Got it,” said Bull, feeling his uneasiness subside. If he was being honest, he felt the same as Dorian. Valet would be an extra step if Bull had to make a sudden exit, and with the way things were going, that might actually happen.

Parking on their own made their walk to the Circle a little longer. Bull found it pleasant. The sun was setting behind the museum’s spire, clean snow had settled into fairytale mounds, and the weather was comfortably chilled rather than bitingly frozen. At least, that’s what Bull thought. Dorian shivered next to him, cursing Fereldan and Ulio Abrexius and the Maker in turn. Dorian’s constant complaining could be annoying, but Bull didn’t push against it. Today was for Dorian, and if he wanted to whine when he was the one who didn’t bring a coat, he could whine.

The Abrexius wedding revealed itself slowly, starting with twinkling gold lights twisted around ice-coated tree branches. Then came ice sculptures, each as detailed as the last, delicate recreations of delicate halla and intimidating bears. As they got closer, the sculptures grew more elaborate, honoring pre-Wall creatures that had died with magic. Bull stopped in front of a glittering ice dragon, shot through with pink twilight, glittering in the sun.

“Shit,” Bull said, more breathlessly than he intended.

Dorian laughed softly. “A bit excessive, are they not? Ulio has booked off-season, you see. If you listen closely, you can hear these darling little creatures saying, ‘Not to worry, the blushing grooms have intentionally chosen to marry in the winter, no expense has been spared.’”

A couple walked past Dorian and Bull, a man and woman wearing enough jewelry to open a boutique. They glanced at the dragon appreciatively, commenting in Tevene. Bull had picked up some of the language in Seheron, and knew they were admiring the art, but they quickly moved on. Bull felt a stab of offense on the absent artist’s behalf. These were crafted, detailed pieces, and everyone was taking them for granted.

Bull whistled with a slow appreciation. “Do you see those claws on the wing tips? People always miss the claws.” 

Dorian smiled, slow and almost doting, filled with an affection that felt oddly familiar. “I thought everything pre-Wall was creepy.”

“Dragons are cool,” he said.

“Quite,” said Dorian with light amusement. He tugged at Bull’s arm. “Come, we must get inside, or else I will turn to ice myself.”

Bull still made Dorian stop and admire the art when it struck him. Dorian’s whining about the cold grew more and more insistent, which just made Bull joke about warming him up.

Dorian glared as Bull made them stop to admire another dragon. “Have you had your fill? We will be late if you continue to gawk.”

“Do you want my coat?” said Bull.

“And then I would look like a child who has raided his father’s closet. No, thank you.”

“Aww, it’d be cute!”

“ _Please_ let’s go. Your dog is getting wet.”

“Hey. That wet dog smell is protected by the Fereldan Disability Act.”

Dorian just sighed and pulled Bull forward by his wrist. Bull pretended it forced him forward.

_They arrive at the ball stuffed into their finery, Josephine directing them like a chorus. The Bull appreciates it, in his way. He enjoys freedom, but orders are easy, familiar, calming._

_Vivienne gushes over his outfit, and Bull gives her the correct amounts of chafe and pride. Leliana studies him, spy wary of spy, and he meets her gaze evenly. Varric jokes about the frivolity of nobles, and the Bull volleys punchlines back at him. They are all various levels of tense, depending on their roles tonight. The bulk of their investigations will be on Solas, Blackwall, Cassandra and Lavellan. Vivienne and Varric are too well known to disappear, Sera is to work her Jenny connections, and Dorian is to pretend he can’t speak Orlesian so he can eavesdrop. The kid is here, whispering his nonsense as always, and the Bull tunes him out. The Bull’s job is to watch the room with a_ ben-hassrath’s _eyes._

_The Bull hopes the role will be easy, even boring, and that his main concern will be staying awake._

_He is wrong._

Bull wasn’t all that familiar with the Magi Museum, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t normally this lavish. There were tiny white lights everywhere: tangled in glass lanterns, coiled around white-frosted trees, nestled between bouquets. All the flowers were white, accented with silver branches and the occasional small blue blossoms. Bull admired the work, more intricate and delicate than what he and Krem ever got to do. They’d done weddings before, but not like this. Bull estimated this room alone cost around five thousand dollars, and he’d yet to see how the rest of the museum was decked out. Probably enough to put a down payment on a home, or to donate to the charity that brought Princess into Bull’s life, or get Dorian a new car. He identified plenty of dawn lotus, white dahlias, and anemones. Dangerous flowers for Dorian.

Bull tilted his head toward a particularly large bouquet. “You gonna be alright?”

Dorian looked where Bull indicated. “I have taken enough antihistamines to down a small elephant,” he said. “I expected nothing less than pollinated excess.” He pointed at a particularly large flower. “That one in particular has a very specific grudge against me.”

“Hydrangeas? Nah. They’re just in everything. It’s the shit around them that gets you.” 

Dorian looked at him quizzically. “And how would you know that?”

Bull shrugged. “I pay attention,” he said. Though if Dorian had taken meds, then the jury was still out on royal elfroot, a bundle of which currently lay out in Bull’s car. Bull would have to adjust a few things and work without it.

They made their way to the wedding hall, which was located in the museum’s recreation of the Circle’s library. Bull noted he wasn’t the only qunari there. The others looked as close to humans as they possibly could, hair grown out and neatly coiffed, wearing Fereldan-style earrings. None of them looked uncomfortable in the tiny human-sized chairs that had been laid out, though Bull knew it was hell on their backs, and that the seats pressed awkwardly against their asses.

Bull was lucky. The ushers took one look at Princess and whisked Dorian and Bull to a bench against a back wall. The bench was a bit bigger than the chairs, and kept Princess out of the way. It also drew more attention toward them.

Bull had been stared at all his life. He was big even by qunari standards, always standing out. When he entered _bas_ spaces, he stood out even more. Then there were the pieces of him that had fallen off over time: the fingertips, the unnatural droop of his eyelid around the prosthetic, the never-quite-healed skin of old scars. Princess had only made him more conspicuous. He had long ago become comfortable with it.

Dorian was no stranger to attention, but not for Bull’s reasons. Bull had prepared for Dorian to wither under the curious gazes and affronted glares, and to regret bringing him along. Instead, Dorian actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He had a confident little smirk on his face, his eyes bright with challenge. _Say something,_ they said. _I am penniless and disgraced, and I sit here with a marred qunari man. Say something. Just go ahead and say something._

Bull knew he was invited to this wedding so Dorian could make a point, and he’d agreed to that when he’d agreed to come at all. He didn’t know that point would be so ornamental. Tonight, Bull was _arm candy._

That was new.

_In the end, it isn’t the heat of the fabric or the feel of it against his skin that bothers him. It’s the collar, too tight against his neck, brushing against skin where angry hands had too often pressed._

_It does not help that the scents of rich food and strong liquor remind him of Minrathous. He had been Hissrad then, and had been paraded as a magister’s prize. He had worn a muzzle and chains._

_He does not like his jacket’s collar._

_The Bull focuses on the nobles, and lurks in corners wearing his ‘stupid’ face: mouth partly open, eye distant, arms limp at his sides. Humans don’t want to see a focused qunari, they want to see something big and dumb, and as long as Bull gives that to them, they will always let down their guard._

_It works well enough, at first. They glance at him, make hushed jokes at each other, then talk freely where he can hear. And then a young Lord approaches, barely sixteen and already drunk, accompanied by a friend._

_“Do you speak the King’s Tongue, monsieur?” he asks politely. Bull pretends he can’t hear the snicker coming from behind the other boy’s mask._

_“Yes,” the Bull says. He keeps his answers short. The less you give them, the more they make up themselves, and someone’s perception of you tells you what you need to know about them._

_“A delight!” he says, as if a qunari speaking Baslat was an adorable accomplishment. “This skill does not extend to Orlesian, does it?”_

_“No,” says the Bull._

_The two boys look at each other. “A pity,” he says with syrupy disappointment. “I can’t quite think of the words in the King’s Tongue to describe your visage tonight. It is like—” he says, and then lets loose a string of Orlesian._

_Orlesian is nothing to the Bull but lilts and swallowed vowels._

_Even so, he knows, without doubt, that the boy was saying horrible, unspeakable things._

_“Hey, thanks,” he says._

_“The pleasure is mine,” says the boy. He and his friend stumble away, laughing._

_It was going to be a damn long night._

  
  


Bull leaned against the wall, slowly stretching his arm across the back of his and Dorian’s private bench with a grin. Dorian saw the exaggerated and cheesy move and rolled his eyes, but he did not protest. Bull looked possessive of him now, which caused a few whispers. Dorian smiled, just a little.

Someone sat at a glossy piano and started to play some droning tune. It seemed to be the signal that the ceremony was starting, and everyone stood at once. Bull did the same, even if he had no idea why. An Imperialist Brother appeared at the podium. Everyone sat down again.

Imperialism condemned homosexuality as a whole, but there were some progressive sects that allowed it. Bull wouldn’t know the difference, as he’d never been to any kind of Imperial ceremony before. As it turned out, random sitting and standing was a big part of the process. It confused the hell out of Princess. She kept quiet, but watched the proceedings with a clear look of dog-perplexity, and she kept glancing at Bull. He had to refocus her with whispers and hand signals halfway through the ceremony, a little worried that she’d start drawing attention to herself.

 _I don’t know either, kid,_ Bull thought.

Dorian was just as agitated as Bull’s dog. He’d hadn’t spoken about his Imperialist family since their first night at Safari Adventure, but Bull hadn't forgotten the confession. Bull had doubted that Dorian had been to a chantry service since leaving his father’s house, and it was clear from how distant and tense he was that Bull had been right. He felt even more sure that he’d been right to come. 

_The Bull wanders through the party. He has a task, after all. He is to lurk, to listen, and to peel open secrets with a_ ben-hassrath’s _skill. The ball guests gape at him with open mouths and whisper among each other. He is used to that. It usually does not bother him._ Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun.

_Today, he is bothered. He is among nobility, men and women trained from birth in etiquette. Orlais is obsessed with propriety to the point of wearing masks, and yet they openly laugh as the Bull passes._

_They also knock into him, over and over. The Bull knows how to move in a crowd, even with his mass. He is not nearly so clumsy. The Orlesians just want to see the hulking giant struggle._

_He stops in the gardens for a bit, needing to breathe open air. The ‘Vint is there, wearing his finery like he lives in it: spine straight, shoulders back, commanding attention. Yet there is an edge to him, hidden but perceptible to Bull. His left hand is closed, and he fidgets with a ring, spins it with its thumb. He sucks at his cheeks. His jaw is clenched._

_He speaks with someone, and Bull hears in his tone the careful joviality he pairs with self-deprecating humor to ease those wary of him. Bull has always admired the tactic. It was solid technique, nearly_ ben-hassrath _in the execution._

_This noble isn’t charmed. He makes a jab about slaves, turns, and walks away, winning the argument by not letting Dorian participate in its ending. Dorian crosses his arms, his face going perfectly blank. He’s pissed._

_The Bull realizes that, for all of Dorian’s nobility and humanity, he is as much the Orlesians’ plaything as Bull. Solas and Sera are elves, perhaps above their station but elves all the same. Elves are accepted in a vaguely disgusted way. The rest of them are humans. Tevinter mages, however, are not quite so human by Orlesian standards._

_Dorian nods at the Bull as he brushes past, heading toward the buffet. The Bull follows him. “_ These people is assholes _,” he says in Tevene._

 _Dorian pauses, surprised to hear his mother tongue. He faces Bull. “Are_ assholes _,” he corrects._

_Bull shrugs. “I understand it better than I speak it,” he says in Baslat._

_“Well. There go my plans of walking around and announcing my darkest secrets,” says Dorian. He continues toward a bowl of sparkling punch. Bull’s seen him revisit it more than a few times already. Dorian switches back to Tevene. “_ Your sentiment, however, is entirely correct. These people called for and celebrated the destruction of an elven alienage, and yet _we_ are the barbaric ones for providing warm homes and good food. Free will indeed. _”_

 _The Bull thinks of viddathari he’s known, all of whom had swallowed horror after horror. Some wore their tragedies on their skin, permanently marked with deliberate brands. He speaks evenly. “_ That’s not right _,” he says, his opinions constrained by his limited knowledge of Tevene. That was probably for the best._

 _Dorian flares for a moment, then softens. “_ Yes, I—yes. It isn’t. I apologize. I know you’ve had… experiences with the worst of it. _”_

_The Bull watches Dorian pour a healthy amount of the punch into a glass._

_“You doing alright?” Bull asks in Baslat with a slight head tilt toward a gaping dowager. Dorian’s eyes quickly dart toward her and away, and his look clouds over. Bull knows how it feels to be vilified for speaking your mother tongue._

_Dorian relaxes quickly, as he always does. “Of course,” he says, wearing his crafted cheer. “They’ve done an admirable job with the refreshments, particularly the liquid ones. Have you tried this?” He hands his glass to the Bull._

_He looks at it dubiously. He doesn’t think he should drink. Hissrad had only drunk maraas-lok, a spirit soldiers would ferment in secret bags of mashed mangos buried in the ground, and it was all he’d known before the south. Maraas-lok tasted like booze should taste. You knew what was happening with maraas-lok. Orlesian shit was a whole new game, and it had gotten the Bull into trouble before._

_But then he remembers the teenage boys insulting the Bull to his face, and he takes the glass._

_“Shit,” he says after tasting. “Is that peppercorn?”_

_Dorian smiles. “I believe so,” he said. “Still a bit bland, but perfectly exotic by southern standards.” Bull makes to return the glass to Dorian, but Dorian has already turned to pour himself a new one. He holds it up to Bull. “Let us enjoy what we can of the evening.”_

_Bull raises a glass to him, and Dorian does the same. He takes a moment to look Bull up and down._

_“Incidentally, you look nearly civilized,” says Dorian, and then he disappears into the party._

Rilienus and Ulio looked exactly as Iron Bull had predicted. Sharp angles, defined bodies, ridiculously pretty, standard look of old money ‘Vints. They walked into the Chantry twenty minutes into the service, which was apparently another standing moment. They wore traditional Imperialist wedding attire, long flowing black coats fastened with complex leather straps layered over silver-lined black tunics. Bull immediately knew who was Rilienus and who was Ulio, even before Dorian leaned over and whispered the distinctions. Rilienus was beaming. Ulio was preening.

They sat back down after the grooms were situated in front. The eternal ache in Bull’s knee briefly flared, just to remind him it wasn’t all that fond of this activity. The Brother started in on his rambling speech, alternating between the Chant of Light and cliches about love. The grooms exchanged their rings, and began their vows.

Bull’s Tevene had been built in backwards towns and army bases, earned from practical use and not from study. Rilienus’s vows went a little beyond Bull’s comprehension, but they had Dorian holding in laughter.

“Too cheesy?” Bull asked, even if he knew that wasn’t the case. Cheesy was easy. He learned cheesy from pop songs on the radio. 

“Not in the slightest,” whispered Dorian. “They’re quite lovely, and quite clearly written for him. Rilienus has completely mispronounced two words thus far.”

When it was Ulio’s turn, he beckoned to a nearby usher, who brought him a small glass box encrusted with crystals. He took a bottle out from the box, and held it with reverence.

Ulio’s speech was much closer to the pop songs, and easier to understand. There were large declarations of fidelity, of Rilienus being the best thing that ever happened to him, of forever and always. At the end, he gestured to the bottle, over and over and over, and Bull got a bit lost. He leaned over to Dorian.

“So his parents bought him that at birth to share on his wedding day?”

“It appears so,” said Dorian. “A bottle of d’Pélissier, as it happens. Horrifically expensive for no reason other than the name. Ulio’s would be even more so for the age. Tens of thousands of dollars. Absurd by even my standards.” 

Bull grunted with displeasure. He didn’t have nearly as visceral reaction to excess as Sera, but misspent wealth was upsetting all the same.

The ceremony ended with a song that Dorian silently mouthed, knowing it but not wanting to sing it. Ulio told them all to enjoy the museum, and said dinner would take place in the Harrowing Chambers after an hour.

“The what?” asked Bull as everyone filed out of the library.

“Harrowing Chambers,” Dorian said. “It’s the entire top floor. Ancient Fereldans would force their mages to confront a demon, to ensure they could stand up against possession. They shared that practice with Orlais and the Free Marches. Utterly barbaric. Why force a mage to battle directly with a demon, when they had otherwise no issues?”

“And that’s where we’re eating,” said Bull in disbelief.

“It’s a lovely view, and the glass work is stunning,” said Dorian. He studied Bull for a moment, and then a slow smile spread over his face. “Does this place upset you?”

“Hey. I didn’t make fun of you on the bridge.”

“Alright, fine, yes, I didn’t much enjoy that experience. But to my credit, drowning in an upturned car is a technical possibility, whereas demons returning is not. Are you not a fan of history?”

“A bit,” said Bull, surprised that Dorian remembered that detail about him.

“Well, then. This is history. Come, there are some fascinating things on the second floor,” said Dorian, turning toward the tower’s spiraling stone staircase. 

Bull held out a hand to stop him. “I’m more of an elevator guy,” he said. “Got a bum knee.”

“Oh. Yes,” said Dorian. “I should have—”

And this his eyes went unfocused, and his lips parted just slightly, and Bull suddenly knew that he—

“—remembered,” said Dorian.

They stared at each other for a moment, the air charged between them, and Bull could feel the question on the tip of his tongue. _Is it happening to you, too?_

But he couldn’t ask it. He didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Don’t think I mentioned it before,” he said, turning away from Dorian. “Doesn’t bother me most days.” He’d had surgery to address the issues, once he was settled in Fereldan. That was a follow up surgery to the one that had been purposefully botched, an opportunity given to him by a doctor in Par Vollen who had slipped a note into Bull’s pocket. It was how he got off the field, and reassigned to undercover work infiltrating Qun compounds in Fereldan. That job had less surveillance than field work, and Bull eventually managed to slip away. If anyone working for Par Vollen ever found him in Denerim, he would be killed on sight.

Right now, those haunting memories were somehow comforting, grounding. They featured the smell of sterilizing chemicals, the background buzzing of expensive machines, and televisions in waiting rooms. They had happened. They were real.

“Then we go to the elevators,” said Dorian cheerfully, as if nothing had even happened, because technically, nothing had.

Dorian and Bull made their way to the second floor after grabbing drinks from the open bar. Ulio’s champagne had been placed in an elaborate display at the bar, complete with a little note about the history of d’Pélissier. It was written in both Fereldan and Tevene, and Bull read it while Dorian ordered them complex cocktails.

The displays were decorated with as many flowers and crystals and silver things as the ground floor. Bull’s mental tally of the floral budget was creeping toward six figures. Were all five floors like this? They must have had entire flower farms and greenhouses growing what they needed for months. Bull suddenly felt inspired to go deeper into the wedding business.

There were also cocktail waiters wandering around with champagne flutes, which Dorian took as soon as his drink was gone, and which he kept taking. Bull saw security in every corner, and knew from the uniforms that the couple had rented out an upscale company. He’d worked for them briefly. It was no wonder that Dorian had burned through his mother’s inheritance gift, if this was the world he came from.

Dorian took Bull into nearly every open room, chattering all the while. Bull let him, because it distracted Dorian from his darker thoughts, and because his passion was damn adorable. Bull asked questions when he sensed Dorian wanted a question, and made all the appropriate noises and faces. He actually knew most of it, as morbidly fascinated with pre-Wall Thedas as he was, but he liked hearing Dorian talk about it anyway.

Bull tried not to think of the young children crying themselves to sleep, afraid of their future, afraid of themselves, torn from their families, never to see them again outside letters and brief visits. He tried not to think of the lyrium-filled Templars accusing mages of things they did not do, and then sending a spirit through them to remove their very soul. He tried not to think of flesh burning when spells went unruly. He tried not to think of mages supplicating themselves to demons when their lives grew too sour.

He focused on Dorian, pretty Dorian, collected and calm and at home among the distant horrors. A handful of people stopped to chat with him. Most used Tevene, sometimes with a side eye to Bull. Some spoke Fereldan. One spoke in Orlesian. No matter the language, Dorian greeted them all with the same companionable charm and witty conversation. Most of them brought up that he had left his PhD program. Some asked what he was ‘working on.’ He gave his responses, and the friend would accept it, and immediately move on to talking about themselves. Dorian relaxed considerably over the hour they spent wandering the Circle. He wasn’t the scandal he thought he was.

While they were exploring the Templar quarters, the grooms appeared.

They were each holding champagne flutes of their own. Ulio held his upright and prim, while Rilienus seemed to forget he was holding anything at all, gesturing wildly as he spoke to his guests. Bull observed them for a while, and he didn’t like what he saw.

Ulio’s face would twitch with annoyance any time Rilienus got a laugh, and he shushed Rilienus whenever his voice rose with excitement. Their night and day personalities did not compliment each other. It seemed like Ulio had married someone trusting and soft, who wouldn’t question his authority too often.

The couple parted with their guests, and looked around to find the next person to visit. Rilienus saw Dorian and waved at him excitedly, and Ulio’s demeanor iced over. When Rilienus saw Princess, his eyes went wide, and he all but ran to Dorian and Bull. Ulio glared as Rilienus ran off, but when he saw who Rilienus was heading toward, he painted on a smile and followed.

Rilienus gasped when he was in Princess’s proximity, and he put his free hand over his face in truly genuine awe. “Ooooh, she’s working, I know that, but she’s _such_ a good girl. Will you tell her that for me when she’s not working?”

Dog people could be annoying, even when they weren’t directly messing with Princess. She could still feel their energy, and got distracted all the same, which left Bull’s blind side open. That could set Bull on edge on a bad day, and even had the potential to set off panic and paranoia. That was very, very rare, and had only happened in the first few months of navigating with one eye in a crowded city, but it was always a risk.

But Rilienus was practically vibrating with a need to play with Princess, yet was managing to restrain himself. Considering the pure decadence of this wedding, Bull thought that was a pretty big deal. Rilienus wasn’t used to denying his whims, and he was still being more respectful toward Princess than a lot of people Bull had met in Denerim. He smiled at Rilienus. “I’ll pass along the message.”

Rilienus looked at her wistfully. “My dogs were here for pictures, but they’re back with the nanny now.”

Bull just barely managed to swallow a shocked ‘they have a nanny?’ Of course they did. Bull should only be shocked he hadn’t already assumed. Dorian caught Bull’s eye and gave a sly, subtle smirk all the same.

“Rosie’s a labrador-bernese mix—” said Rilienus, speaking as if he were reciting his favorite poem, but Ulio interrupted him before he could get very far.

“There will be plenty of time to discuss the mutts later,” he said smoothly. He raised his and Rilienus’s linked hands, and gently kissed his new husband’s knuckles, giving Rilienus no time to process that he’d been cut off, or that Ulio had used the word ‘mutts.’ “And I’m sure this guest is more than just his dog, What is your name?” Ulio looked Bull up and down in a way that was meant to wither. Bull stared back at him blankly.

“Bull,” he said.

An amused smile tugged at Ulio’s mouth, while Rilienus did a little jump forward with an offered hand. “Nice to meet you!” he said. Bull shook his hand while Ulio raised an eyebrow.

“Just Bull?” he asked.

“Hissrad Bull,” he said. “But I don’t use Hissrad.” He offered no further explanation, even if there was one. Ulio didn’t initiate a handshake, so neither did Bull.

“Well. It _does_ suit you,” said Ulio, and Bull knew he’d be laughing about it as soon as Bull was out of earshot. 

Ulio turned his body slightly toward Dorian. People like Ulio didn’t address qunari for long. “And how did you two meet?”

“Bull is a florist,” said Dorian with a glint in his eyes. Dorian was still revelling in his unique guest.

Ulio could no longer help himself, and laughed outright. “You _arrange flowers_? Forgive me, but that is simply… unexpected.”

Bull looked him in the eyes, unperturbed by Ulio’s attitude. “I grew up in Par Vollen,” he said, and he took small satisfaction when Ulio flinched. People tended to treat Par Vollen refugees like tragic figures, which was annoying, but it could be kind of fun when Bull got to put someone’s foot in their mouth. “The Qun’s got a meditation technique all about art in nature. It translated into floral design pretty easy, and the ladies I took classes with made some damn fine cupcakes.”

Dorian laughed, somewhat because he was performing their friendship for Ulio and Rilienus, mostly because he hadn’t heard that story before. “It is not remotely surprising that you have chosen a career because of baked goods.”

Bull grinned. “I’m a simple man.”

Ulio raised an eyebrow, clearly taking note of Dorian’s genuine comfort with a qunari. “That does sound nice,” he said smoothly, before sliding his gaze back to Dorian again. “What a lovely outfit,” he said, looking Dorian up and down. “You must be fond of it. Did you wear it to Cecilia’s graduation bash?”

Bull could guess a repeated outfit was a huge social faux pas. Dorian was prepared. “The scarf is new,” he said. “I bought it at this little boutique called, oh, what was it? Ah, yes, Sphere.”

Bull and Rilienus laughed at the joke. Sphere was one of the biggest, cheapest fast fashion retailers in all of Thedas. The message beneath the quip was clear: you could mock Dorian Pavus, but he would not cower.

Rilienus didn’t laugh. “Oh, I would never shop at places like that. Terrible what the demand does to the elves,” he said.

Dorian didn’t miss a beat. “Do show me your ring, Ulio. Is it true lyrium?” said Dorian. Everyone knew lyrium was mined by casteless dwarves, many of whom died in the process.

Ulio pushed his shoulder length hair behind his ears, shifted his weight forward, and showed Dorian his ring with a tight smile. Dorian took his hand, and pulled it slightly toward him. 

“Absolutely gorgeous,” he said, locking his eyes in with Ulio.

Rilienus was entirely unaware of their conversation’s undertones. He showed Dorian his hand, beaming. “I always wanted a lyrium ring! Oh, Dorian, I’m so very glad you could come. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” said Dorian earnestly. Rilienus smiled, wide and genuine, his sharp features somehow going soft and childlike. 

In contrast, Ulio went still.

He turned, movements measured, icicle-sharp, and he waved over a cocktail waiter from halfway across the room. “I’ll admit, I was a bit surprised you showed at all,” Ulio said. “It’s always somewhat…draining, to attend the wedding of an ex-lover.”

It was an awkward thing to point out, and Rilienus looked down at his shoes. Dorian was less affected. “It’s so far behind us, I can barely see it,” he said. “Not that I don’t have wonderful memories, of course, but it was a different time.”

“I do miss our undergrad days. I had the most adorable little apartment,” Rilienus said wistfully.

In spite of Rilienus reminiscing over a living situation rather than Dorian, Ulio grew all the more frozen. The cocktail waiter came to his side. Ulio gingerly lifted a glass.

“I _am_ happy you came. You become ever so entertaining as an evening wears on. Drink, Pavus?” said Ulio, offering the champagne flute with a smirk.

Dorian stiffened.

_The evening ends in equal amounts of murder and triumph, and it is all very Orlesian. Bull knows there is more to it from the looks Lavellan has given him, and she clearly wants to revisit it later. Bull is happy to accept the results without knowing the politics behind it, for now. He just wants the night to be over._

_Drink and food begin to flow all the more, as if the night had finally truly begun. Bull knows they’ve been waiting for the theatrics, masking it beneath a thin guise of concern for their nation. He finds himself admiring the magisters for being evil pieces of shit so openly and honestly._

_Josephine has whisked off somewhere with an Orlesian bigwig, and Bull has taken that opportunity to slide back into the guest wing and remove his inquisition uniform. He is to be mocked and berated, he might as well be comfortable._

_He has a daring thought, one that appears to him now and then, fleeting and scandalous—no one needs The Iron Bull right now. The role belongs to him, and he can do whatever he wants with it._

_He normally chastises himself for his selfish thoughts about his silly little_ bas _role, but this time, he feels invigorated. He is right. He has taken off the costume, and now gets to make The Iron Bull’s choices for the rest of the night._

_It isn’t until he is arm wrestling some chevalier that he realizes he is very, very drunk._

_Stupid, to get so caught up in his frustrations that he lets down his guard. He is of the Qun, an agent, a_ ben-hassrath _spy taught to bear the taunts of the_ bas _when his role requires it. He is meant to breathe through his emotions, because getting tangled in them is how a person becomes_ tal-vashoth _, becomes_ bas _themselves_

_He allows the chevalier to win, and excuses himself quickly, because the chevalier is trying to catch his eyes. She reminds him of Cassandra with less of a stick up her ass, and Bull has already wondered if she’d like him to put one there._

_That is a problem. Leliana has given them all strict instructions to stay celibate at the Winter Palace, and had reminded them that bards were trained to make you feel special, to make you believe that this was different, and they weren’t out to pull secrets from pillow talk. She had given her lecture while very specifically staring at Sera, Dorian, and Bull. Bull had been offended. He knew better than anyone the dangers of a honeypot._

_It’d be good if he gave in, though. It’d be real good._

Vashedan, _he is so drunk._

_Bull makes his way to the banquet before his dick takes over his brain, because he needs food and water. On his way, he sees a servant pulling a tall man who can barely stand toward the guest quarters._

_Bull realizes that someone is the ‘Vint._

Bull hadn’t known Dorian for very long, but he knew enough to understand Ulio’s insinuation. Dorian took the glass slowly, like a snake coiled behind a rock, too still and ready to attack. “How kind of you,” he said. Ulio let his face slip, just a little, upset that his actions had not bothered Dorian. “Surprisingly enough, I _do_ remember the last nuptials we attended together. Who was your date back then? Vincent, was it?”

Ulio blew air out his nose, a barely concealed frustrated sigh. Then he relaxed and smiled with a dangerous sweetness. “Well,” he said. “Rilienus and I must get going, we wouldn’t want to be late to our own reception. Truth be told, this all very exhausting. I don’t know if I’ll make it to Dr. Axton’s office tomorrow.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes.

“I made the silly mistake of agreeing to stop by his office before dear Rilienus and I leave for the honeymoon. Did you hear? I’ve been apprenticing with him. Not the most exciting work.” He paused. “I mostly just sort through his emails.”

Bull couldn’t follow this part of the conversation, but whatever had been said caused Ulio to win, and Dorian to lose. Dorian dropped his pretenses, and his grip on his flute stem tightened so much Bull was a little worried he’d break it. “You would be that petty?” he hissed. “Truly?”

Rilienus looked between the two with wide, deep brown eyes. “What?” he asked.

Ulio placed a hand on the small of Rilienus’s back, pushing him away from Dorian and Bull. “Let’s not keep our guests waiting, _amatus_ ,” he said. He continued to push Rilienus, and Rilienus let him, too confused to fight. Ulio turned around one last time. He did not smile at Dorian so much as he bared his teeth.

Bull gave Dorian a moment to collect himself before he asked, “What the hell was that about?”

“Ulio Abrexius is directly meddling with my professional life,” hissed Dorian, low and bitter. “ _Well._ ”

Bull put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Let’s step outside.”

The ground level was almost completely empty, and Bull couldn’t help think of its pre-Wall days, the stones bare, no electric heating to comfort the halls, Templars ensuring no mages left through the grand front doors. Food or no, he wasn’t looking forward to the Harrowing Chamber.

Dorian followed Bull in silence, his arms crossed over his chest. Princess, at Bull’s left as always, nudged his hand; the alert for someone approaching from his blind side. Bull turned, and came face to face with a security guard. 

He sized up Dorian and Bull, suspicious that the two were going _away_ from the wedding reception rather than _toward_. Bull kept his face politely bland—and then recognition snapped in both of them.

“Matthias?”

“The Iron Bull! Shit, man! It’s been too long!”

The two men clasped their hands and slapped each other’s backs, while Dorian managed a choked, mocking laugh at hearing Bull’s old bouncer nickname. Bull was glad to give him a chuckle through whatever funk he was in, but he did feel a little offended. The Iron Bull sounded _so cool_. Dorian should be impressed.

“Haven’t seen you around for a while. Where you been?” Matthias’s eyes slipped toward Princess, then back to Bull. He didn’t say anything. It made Bull like him more.

“Around,” said Bull.

“Yeah?”

“Helped open a flower shop.”

That made Matthias laugh out loud. “Well, why the fuck not! Brings you to fancy parties, apparently.”

Bull indicated Dorian with a tilt of his head. “This is Dorian. He knows the grooms. One of them was just a dick to him.”

“Lord Bridezilla Shitstain?” asked the security guard immediately. “Fuck that guy.”

Dorian burst out laughing, and Bull could feel some tension leaking from him. “Indeed.”

“We’re just gonna have a quick smoke before the reception,” said Bull.

“Be my guest,” said Matthais, sweeping an arm toward a glassed-in smoking lounge. Popular places in Fereldan always had them somewhere, a remnant of decades past, when cigarettes were considered healthy. “Good to see you again.

“You too,” said Bull.

Dorian’s cigarette was lit as soon as they were inside, his motions smooth and practiced. Dorian was always wearing his vices like accessories: a never-empty black coffee in a golden antique mug at work, strong whiskey in bars as soon as his shift was done, cigarettes held in his elegant and painted fingers. He indulged with a barely contained desperation, a symptom of his life changing uncomfortably. Bull knew he had the capacity to fall in deeper. Ulio had confirmed that. Bull would be keeping an eye on Dorian.

Bull could see all the elaborate displays through the glass room, and he analyzed the floral arrangements around Ulio’s champagne bottle while Dorian fidgeted and paced. 

Most people locked up their problems, and Bull was pretty good at finding the keys. Krem would go still when he needed to decompress, and wouldn’t loosen up until his frustrations were coaxed out of him. Dorian was the opposite, always full of some kind of energy or another, poised to burst into a rant. The two of them were perfectly symmetrical, summer and winter, light and dark, reminiscent of Qun teachings about balance, grounding Bull in his identity from both sides.

(There was no balance between Dorian and Krem, he’d just met Dorian, that was—)

(Not now.)

Dorian came to a sudden stop and twirled toward Bull, a whirl of smoke and indignation. “Imagine! To be Ulio Abrexius, and to act as if I am the only one capable of acting a drunken fool! Is he unaware of his own behavior? And he’s not even threatened by Rilienus’ and my past! It’d be somewhat understandable if he was. But no! Do you know why Ulio Abrexius hates me so much?”

“Why,” said Bull, filling in Dorian’s dramatic pause as required.

“Ulio Abrexius hates me,” Dorian said, “Because we once inelegantly fucked in a dirty club bathroom while his then-boyfriend Vincent Hardalio got us more drinks, and I had the audacity to tell Rilienus this when they first started dating.”

“Shit,” said Bull, both to give Dorian the reaction he was looking for, and because that was a pretty dick move.

“Indeed! Ulio and I had a bit of a fling of our own, you see. More of an understanding than a relationship. He understood that I was in—a bit of a need, after my father’s passing, and I understood he had discreet carta connections. What a wonderful time for us both. And now he’s meddling in my career!” Dorian started pacing again, and slipped into a mocking tone. “Oh, so _very_ sorry to have told someone of your indiscretions, I understand that this is quite slanderous, utterly unreasonable gossip, perhaps it was a different Ulio’s dick in my mouth. Easy to get dicks confused, you see. Will you accept my apology? Extend your hand, I’d like to kiss your rings. The absurdity—ugh!”

Dorian suddenly sat down on a bench, burying his hand in his face, his cigarette burned out and forgotten. Bull got up and sat next to him, leaving an amount of space, but letting Dorian know he was there. Dorian spoke into his hands, his voice muffled. “I’d like to take that stupid bottle of d’Pélissier and smash it, right in front of his face.”

Bull looked around the museum. He could see a vague outline of Matthias, standing still, mind distant, bored. Guarding the first floor exit when a wedding reception was taking place four floors above had to be rough work, at least until the drinks started to flow. He thought of Ulio’s eyes twinkling with mirth at Bull’s name, his job, his general existence. He thought of Ulio’s treatment of Rilienus, shutting him down when Rilienus had just wanted to talk about his dogs. He thought of Dorian’s face when Ulio told him about his apprenticeship with Axton, a look of shock and pure hurt. And Bull thought of just how much he did _not_ want to go into a room literally called “the Harrowing Chambers”. 

Bull tapped his fingers against his knee, looked back at Matthias. “Okay. Let’s hide it and leave.”

Dorian lifted his head up toward Bull. “What, like a schoolboy prank?”

Bull shrugged. “Sure. I got a service dog. Pretty easy to fake an alert.” Dorian looked at him with suspicious disbelief. Bull nodded toward the door. “Security’s had their eyes on me all night. Princess or no Princess, I look like a jackass someone is rebelling with, but Matthias knows me. So we go in, I tell him I gotta go, that we need to get our keys from valet. He calls for valet. They can’t find our keys. Everyone’s distracted. You grab the bottle, hide it somewhere, come back, say you brought a spare key in case this happened. Maybe throw in some ‘Vinty fit about disorganization, really keep ‘em distracted. No one’s thinking about the champagne. We leave. Send Ulio into a panic.”

Dorian took a moment to process this, then laughed, dark and amused and tempted. “Oh, that _would_ be lovely,” he said. “Imagine his face!” Dorian looked at the champagne wistfully. “But no. I know this crowd all too well. Even if they found the blasted thing, jobs would be lost.” He paused, then smiled in a slow, mischievous way, his eyes growing bright. “Oh, that _would_ send a certain message, wouldn’t it. If I—” 

Dorian pulled a small notepad and pen from a pocket inside his jacket, and he started writing. 

Bull peered over his shoulder. “You just had that on you?”

“One must always be prepared for a burst of inspiration,” Dorian said offhandedly, distracted by his note.

“Don’t you have a phone?”

“Yes, but it’s not the same.”

Bull grinned, nudging Dorian with his shoulder. “You’re a giant nerd, aren’t you.”

Dorian scoffed, then smiled, almost shyly. “Tell no one.”

Bull felt himself go warm, his whole body turning soft and mushy at the adorable eccentricities of Dorian. “Tell no one,” he said.

Dorian set down his pen, his note finished. The note said: _Remember Montsimmard? Do be kind to the staff. They’re doing their best. - Pavus._

“What happened in Montsimmard?” asked Bull.

Dorian smiled. “Ulio has done far worse things than habitual cheating. So have I, of course, and we used to be in a bit of an Antivan stand-off with scandals, but, well. I have very little to lose these days.” Dorian tore out his note carefully and looked at Bull. “Well. Shall we?”

“Hell yeah,” said Bull. 

Everything went down perfectly, including Dorian’s performance as the rich brat filled with both entitlement and genuine worry for his friend. No one followed them to Bull’s car. Once they had crossed the lake, Dorian said, “Thank you for this, Bull, truly. I have a feeling Axton will send me a return e-mail soon. That deserves a bit of celebration, don’t you think?”

That was when Bull noticed the strange way Dorian’s coat hung around his hip, and realized Dorian, with his proclivities, would be very, very good at secreting away bottles of liquor.

“You didn’t,” said Bull, grinning from ear to ear.

Dorian held up the d’Pélissier. “As I said. It sends a message.”

It was an idiotic, reckless move, but it was a bold one, and it meant Dorian would not now, or ever, take anyone’s shit. Bull liked that quality in a man. 

Bull suddenly felt weakened, as if the weight of Dorian’s gaze had shocked his body and set alerts, a flush in his face, a shortness of breath, a fire in his belly. Basically he was horny, but like, in an emotional way.

Krem was right.

Bull had a giant, stupid, illogical, slobbering, dangerous, wild crush on Dorian Pavus.

  
  


_The Bull takes Dorian from the servant, then presses a few royals into his hands for his trouble. The servant takes it, and asks if Lord Pavus would like water and elfroot sent to his room. The Bull gives him another royal._

_They make their way to the guest quarters. The Bull is unsteady, but able to walk, while Dorian is much too unbalanced. It is awkward and stumbling, but they manage, Dorian alternating between giggles and incoherency._

_The quarters aren’t labeled with individual names, and the Bull is worried about finding Dorian’s, but Dorian ends up lurching toward a door. The Bull is initially worried, but the room is empty, and he sees Dorian’s leathers hanging on hooks._

_The elfroot is already in the room. The Bull marvels at the efficiency of the Halamshiral elves for a moment, and then hands it to Dorian. “Drink,” he says._

_Dorian responds with clumsy but capable hands, uncorking the bottle and taking a single sip. “Difficult, isn’t it?” he says, suddenly sounding much clearer. Dorian and Bull spend plenty of time in the tavern, and Bull has seen Dorian summon brief sprints of false sobriety before falling apart again._

_“Orlesian politics?” Bull asks._

_Dorian waves a hand dismissively. “No, not that. This—_ all _of it. Pretending that you don’t see how they look at you.”_

_Bull should have defused the situation. He should have encouraged Dorian to drink the elfroot faster, and then to lie down. Instead he said, “Thought you’d be used to it by now.”_

_Dorian let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, yes. Yes. I am. Oh, but I am. Is it wrong, Bull,” asked Dorian, his tone suddenly changing into something more vulnerable, “That I saw how they looked at_ you _, and felt comforted?”_

_“Nah,” he says, because he’d done the same to Dorian._

_“Perhaps there are a few more similarities between the two of us than I initially thought. I think that sometimes. To come from somewhere so unlike—_ here. _Do you miss olives? I miss olives. And the sun. And olives.”_

_Dorian wavers, and Bull knows the window of coherency has closed. He takes the elfroot from Dorian’s hand, and puts it on the bedside table. He encourages Dorian to remove his jacket, helps him with the buttons. Dorian will be sleeping in his clothes, that much is obvious, but Bull can at least keep the jacket from being crushed._

_Dorian suddenly leans his forehead against the Bull’s chest. “We ought to be better friends,” he slurs._

_“Yeah, maybe,” says Bull, undoing the last button._

_Dorian hums agreement, and then suddenly tilts his head up, and kisses the Bull on the lips._

_It is only a kiss. The Bull, for all he knows better, is drunk enough to return in kind._

_Dorian pulls away, as suddenly as he’d begun. “Do be a dear, and don’t remind me of that in the morning,” he says, and then he lays down and sleeps._

_The Bull staggers away, off to find his own rooms. He will not remind Dorian of their kiss, but Dorian cannot take the memory from him._

_Now he knows, under no uncertain terms, that Dorian absolutely, undeniably, wants to fuck the Bull._

_He can make that happen._

* * *

Dorian’s condo was messy, but Bull could see recent attempts to control it. There were no dishes in the sink, but the dishwasher had been recently used. The floor was clear of clutter, and the air was recently scented with cedar and rose. Dorian had expected Bull to come up to his place. Bull kept that observation to himself, only commenting on Dorian’s decor. 

The walls were painted with rich reds and golds and greens, and ornate wallpaper covered two accent walls. He preferred vintage furniture, or at least furniture that read as vintage. Everything was dark wood and velvet upholstery and clearly expensive. Dorian could probably afford a new car just by selling some of the things in his apartment.

Dorian opened the champagne cage, then grinned at Bull. “Shall we?” he asked, primed to pop the cork. Dorian was still flushed with the excitement of illicit behavior, even four hours later.

Bull gently reminded himself that he was entirely too old and mature for all of this, acknowledged the reminder, told it to have a nice day, and grinned broadly. “Hell yeah.”

“To Ulio Abrexius,” said Dorian. “His sweet and terribly naive husband, and to their inevitable and gloriously dramatic divorce.”

Dorian popped the cork effortlessly, spilling nothing. He took two champagne flutes out from his cupboards. They were cut from crystal and decorated with etched flowers and gold vines. He poured the champagne.

Dorian held his glass delicately, like he was a model selling a product, as perfect as a painting. He handed the other flute to Bull, and Bull carefully curled his rough fingers around the stem. It looked impossibly small in his hands, like a toy made from plastic and decorated with cheap paint.

“Well. Shall we?” asked Dorian.

“Sure,” Bull said, and linked his arm with Dorian’s, forcing them into the classic wedding pose of entwined lovers. Dorian made a sound of annoyance and rolled his eyes, but he was hiding a smile and making no effort to pull away. They tipped their glasses and drank.

The champagne was good, sharp and sweet with a lingering finish of toasted almonds. Bull took another sip. “Shit. Not worth my whole 401k, but still. Shit.” 

Dorian hummed an acknowledgment, smiling behind the crystal glass. “A ringing endorsement. They ought to put that review on the label,” he said, impossibly fond. 

And because everything felt so weirdly familiar, and because Bull was disinterested in turning an obvious thing into a twisting path, Bull leaned forward and kissed Dorian.

Dorian responded warmly, but pulled away quickly. “How forward of you,” he said, smugly coquettish.

“You have something else planned?” asked Bull, who knew damn well Dorian had been expecting Bull to do exactly what he was doing.

“I thought we might enjoy our spoils first.”

“Plenty of time for that.”

“Oh? You’re expecting a quick resolution?”

“Nope. Talking about between rounds.”

“I knew I adored you,” Dorian said, and he threw his arms around Bull’s neck. 

_Dorian sits up, beautiful in his imperfection, sweat-sheened and still panting. He weaves slightly, both from drink and exertion. “Well,_ ” _he says, “That was… that,”_

_“Ha! Don’t act all coy,” says the Bull with a wide grin. He is wired still, liquor hot in his head, and giddy at finally bedding the ‘Vint. “You seemed pretty damn satisfied when you were screaming my name.”_

_“Circumstances,” says Dorian curtly. He begins to gather his clothes._

_Dorian’s not as witty as usual, a symptom of his discomfort. It’s all that_ altus _bullshit. The Bull would prove to him that Thedas wouldn’t end if Dorian banged a qunari. Besides, he had not spent eight years in Seheron without having a thought or two about Tevinter mages writhing beneath him. Dorian had so enjoyed writhing._

_The Bull leans back in his bed. He begins to idly stroke his cock. Dorian’s gaze slips toward him, then quickly away. “Try not to slide off the parapets,” the Bull says._

_Dorian tenses, and the Bull grins. He had figured that was a fear of Dorian’s, unused to ice as he is. The Bull moves his hand further down his dick, teasing the balls. His cock twitches in response._

_Dorian turns and stares openly, his lips slightly parted. Bull shifts in his bed, sliding his hand back toward his tip._

_Finally, Dorian makes a frustrated sound, and drops his clothes back on the floor. “Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. He climbs back into Bull’s bed and kisses him roughly, angrily. Bull chuckles._

Bull found himself thinking, _At least things are a little less fucked up about qunari this time,_ and then he thought, _This time?_ He unconsciously growled his annoyance. 

Dorian pulled away and looked at Bull quizzically. “Everything alright?” he asked.

“Just fine,” said Bull, sweeping the memory away, like he’d been doing all day. He kissed Dorian again, placing a hand on the back of Dorian’s head to steady them, his nails lightly scratching the skin. Then, without thinking, Bull pushed Dorian against an accent wall, pinning him to the gilded wallpaper with one arm pressed between their chests. 

Dorian gasped in surprise, and dropped his guard for a moment. He was vulnerable, yielding. And then he smirked. “Frisky, are we?” he asked, finding his control.

Bull should be shocked at his own behavior. He should be apologizing. He’d been playing rough as soon as he could visit the tamassrans, and he was well versed in firm, undeniable consent. Bull never, ever did anything that could bruise without negotiation. But somehow, suddenly, he _knew_ Dorian’s limits. He knew he was tender-headed, and could not tolerate any hair pulling. He knew Dorian loved cum on his face and physical acts of degradation, but used the watchword the first and only time Bull called him dirty. He liked spanking to an extent, if he was in the mood—not too hard, only with cushioned paddles, and _never_ bent over the knees. He couldn’t get enough of rope play, just as Bull couldn’t get enough of seeing him bound, and they both could get caught up in it and make foolish mistakes.

Bull cupped Dorian’s crotch with his free hand, massaging in slow, lazy circles. Dorian gasped, and Bull put pressure on Dorian’s chest, growling low in his throat. “You like this,” Bull whispered, close to Dorian’s ear.

“If you insist on such depraved behavior, I suppose I’ve little to do but give in,” said Dorian breathlessly. Bull unbuttoned Dorian’s pants without looking down, swift and professional, and slid his hand to cup Dorian’s balls. Dorian shivered.

_Dorian bats the Bull’s hand away from his shoulder. “_ Vishante kaffas _, that clasp is decorative!”_

_The Bull pulls his hand away. “How the hell am I supposed to know that?”_

_“It’s simple!” Dorian insists._

_“You pull my pants down and there’s my dick._ That’s _simple.”_

 _Dorian whines with frustration, and tilts his clothed shoulder toward him. He fusses with some strings on the right side of his only sleeve. “Undo these first, if you please. Then unfasten the top buckle_ here _—” says Dorian. He proceeds to give the Bull a detailed tutorial on how to release him from this particular ‘Vint get up, which is entirely different from the last one. The Bull watches intently, but keeps his expression slightly disgusted._

_“Just wear a damn tunic next time,” Bull says, even if he has committed the instructions to memory._

_Dorian shrugs off the last of his leathers. “Who says there’ll be a next time?” he says, with too much bite to be entirely a joke._

The fact you’ve shown up once a week for a month _, the Bull thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “’Cause you can’t resist me,” he says, pushing him down on the bed._

The memories were as strong as ever, but Bull didn’t mind them, not this time. Time and place seem to slide around them, memories twisting and overlapping and merging. Here, now, _this_ Dorian moaned, grinding against _this_ Bull’s hand, and then he gently pushed against Bull’s belly with his pinned arms. “Give me a minute to carefully undress, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll be wearing this outfit to every formal event for the next ten years, you see.”

But then there, then, that Dorian and that Bull—

_Dorian is on his knees, his lips wrapped around the Bull’s cock. They are in a stone room, surrounded by oil lamps and mage light. There is a leather lead in the Bull’s hand, connected to a collar around Dorian’s neck. They are doing it, the bound and leashed thing, all at Dorian’s request. He had known the mage was into some unconventional things, but he had never predicted how compatible their tastes were._

_Dorian looks up at Bull through his lashes, his kohl messy but his expression overly pleased. He tries to pull away, but Bull tugs on the leash with a growl, applying a careful amount of force, just enough to let Dorian know what he wants. Dorian manages to make a haughty noise, even around a mouth full of dick. The Bull worries slightly at his breathing, but Dorian holds a stone to drop when he needs a break, and they have worked through Dorian’s tendency to mix watchword use with pride._

_The Bull rests a hand on Dorian’s head, not to control him, just to remind him that he could._

_“You’re so fucking beautiful,” the Bull moans as Dorian swallows him deep. “Yeah. You’re so good.”_

Here, now— 

Dorian was completely naked before Bull could finish removing his clothes, because Dorian had been deliberately distracting in his stripping. He waited until Bull shrugged everything off, and then he gripped the base of Bull’s horns, firm, just at the edge of _too_ firm, and he pulled Bull down for a bruising kiss. He bit the bottom of Bull’s lip, hard enough to mean something.

Then, realization came over him, and he pulled away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

It was widely known in Fereldan culture _not_ to touch a qunari’s horns. Bull would have normally taken that move as a red flag, maybe even have left entirely. Instead, Bull gasped in surprise, uncharacteristic for someone so used to controlling the bedroom. Dorian knew _how_ to grip horns, to stay at the base, to be careful with the nails, to push firmly in one direction and not roughly tug on a whim (he’d done it before, he’d done it before, he’d done it before.)

“Nope,” said Bull, clasping his hands around Dorian’s forearms. “You’re good.” Dorian’s tightened his grip again, and they kissed, messy and desperate.

There, then—

 _The way Dorian kisses him is surprisingly tender. The Bull matches his intensity, as is his habit, because he is_ ben-hassrath. _Dorian is not an official assignment, but it’s one he has taken on himself, because Dorian needs a reason to get out of the library. Because Dorian should know not everyone thinks of him as a villainous traitor. Because Dorian’s dad had taught him he was. Because Dorian had been fed all the same ‘Vint bullshit the battle mages in Seheron had devoured, but Dorian had spat it out and demanded something better. Because Dorian was_ good _._

_Dorian pulls away from Bull, and Bull leans forward, catching his lips again. “I should go away more often,” Bull murmurs._

_“You did not_ go away _,” said Dorian haughtily. “We left you at Caer Bronach because you had broken three ribs.”_

_“Eh. I was pretty deep in a trance. Barely felt it.”_

_“Oh yes, that makes it much less worrisome, of course.”_

_“I’m good,” says Bull, an automatic response._

_Dorian frowned at him, just for a moment. Then he gently placed a hand on the side of Bull’s head, stroking his thumb over the base of Bull’s horns. “I, more than anyone, am acutely aware that you have a body that feels.” He paused. “Well. I suppose myself and nearly every barmaid in Skyhold.”_

_“Hey. Every_ other _barmaid.”_

_Dorian laughs softly. He kisses the Bull again, and the Bull returns it with need. He wraps his arms around Dorian, pulling him closer._

_Dorian pulls away. “I suppose I’m glad you’re back. In spite of my best efforts, it seems I enjoy your company,” he says, somewhere between joking and not._

_“Me too,” says the Bull, and he’s surprised he means honestly._

Here—

Dorian’s ankles rested on his shoulders, and Bull moved inside him with hard, quick strokes. It was sex, it was _good_ sex, but it was more. It was connection, intention. Most sex was grabbing a handful of random stems and throwing them in a vase, hoping the arrangement was pleasing. This was complete knowledge of what flowers were available, an artful display of their best qualities. 

Dorian was close to coming, and Bull knew this because of the particular sounds he was making, because his fingers were curling in the sheets. Bull kept his pace steady and even, watching Dorian. Dorian opened his eyes and met Bull’s, mouth gaping, vulnerable in his imperfection.

“I got you,” Bull whispered, and he didn’t quite know why. Dorian closed his eyes.

Then— 

_Dorian hangs from a tree, bound with thick coils of Bull’s rope, beautiful in the moonlight. He is suspended above a quiet pond with his face to the sky. His arms are behind his back, one leg bent, held in place with a twist of knots. The other leg is outstretched, rope wrapped to accent its muscular shape. Dangerous, impossibly dangerous, to suspend him above water, but Dorian has drawn protective glyphs on the surface, and Bull is never too far._

_Bull runs his fingers across Dorian’s skin, the light touches soothing Dorian’s rope-bitten chest. Dorian moans through the cords wrapped over his mouth. He is still, blood-drunk, lost in his own senses._

_“Are you alright,_ kadan _?” Bull asks, tender, soft, shifting his weight in the knee deep water. Dorian makes a low, pleased sound and nods. They communicate like this, with head shaking and nods, and have agreed on a hummed pitch to indicate an all-cease. Dorian has placed complete trust in Bull, and that trust feels like the life in his lungs, like the shape of his bones, like the strength of his muscles._

_Bull runs his palm flat over Dorian’s bound arms, then follows with the lightest scratch of his nails. Dorian gasps, and Bull kisses his shoulder._

Dorian was—is—was beautiful beneath him, and the word _kadan_ was on Bull’s tongue. They’d known each other for mere weeks, but it had been years, years spent in Skyhold and then in Nevarra and finally in Tevinter—

Then something pierced their ears.

They didn’t understand it, not at first, both caught up in the intensity of whatever was between them. Then the sound began to register, and they recognized the pattern. Something had triggered the smoke alarm. They pulled away, looking around the condo in a panic.

At once, they both saw a fire at Dorian’s window, impossibly vivid, too-orange flames licking up his curtain. The scent of burning fabric filled the room, but there was something else to the smell, something metallic and sharp that terrified Bull.

Dorian pulled away first, swearing in Tevene. Bull stayed calm, as he always did in dangerous situations, because he’d been in so much danger that his fear had learned to retreat, and then it would come back when it wasn’t welcome.

“The building’s got to have a fire extinguisher,” he said steadily.

“ _Kaffas,_ how could—the wiring—”

Bull put a hand on Dorian’s shoulders. “Plenty of time to figure that out later. First, fire extinguisher.”

Dorian closed his eyes, took a deep, calming breath, and then ran out to the hallway. Bull waited patiently, keeping an eye on the curtains.

_He thinks the fire is an attack at first._

_He’s sure it’s an attack. He’s been in the south so long that he is bedding a damn_ bas saraabas _from fucking Tevinter. How had it come to this? He is Qun, and he is not supposed to be controlled by matters of his body. How weak he is, to have given into simple pleasures so readily. The Qun does not allow for self-blame, for hatred turned inward, and it was why he had submitted to the priests so long ago—too long ago—but he is still capable of finding patterns, and he settles into their rhythm. Stupid, so stupid, so_ damn _stupid. He will handle this, kill the demon with Dorian’s eyes to protect Skyhold and Krem. He’ll make the thing go down, even if it takes the Bull down with him, unprepared as he is. If it doesn’t, if he survives, he’ll go back to Par Vollen, stupid, stupid, where is his axe, he wouldn’t even have had his damn axe if they were fucking in Dorian’s room—not Dorian, demon—stupid, stupid, his axe, where is his axe—_

_Then the temperature drops all at once. The fire extinguishes, leaving behind a puddle and burnt curtains._

_Dorian doesn’t look demonic. He has his arms folded over his chest and is avoiding Bull’s gaze. He is as angry as he is embarrassed._

_“Well. Here we are, then. What must I do to ensure your silence on this matter?”_

_The reality of the situation hits the Bull. Dorian’s not a demon. The Bull is just really, really good at sex._

_The Bull laughs uproariously, somewhat because of the humor, mostly because the tension has left him all at once._

Magefire. It was magefire. Somehow, it was magefire.

Dorian returned with the extinguisher. The fire was small, all things considered, and was quickly smothered. Chalky white foam covered the room. Dorian’s arms dropped to his sides, and he stared at the mess in his apartment.

Then—

_The Bull sees the glyphs as a subtle shimmer of heat on the ground. He grins, shifting his weight. There are perks to fighting alongside mages, like backing assholes into traps. He can tell it is Dorian’s work, which is a little disappointing. Vivienne’s glyphs always leave the things frozen, so that Bull can shatter the flesh like glass. Sometimes you would find perfect little shards later, like fingers or an eyeball, and they would almost look kind of pretty if you didn’t think about it being a real body part._

_But Dorian’s flames are damn good, strong and hot and quick. The things always die immediately, which is clean, merciful. It just isn’t as_ fun.

_The Bull roars, stomping one foot on the ground, leaning forward and towering. The thing flinches, and steps backwards, closer to the glyph. It’s a nasty little archer, quick and deadly with the arrows, and it had gotten Lavellan in the shoulder. The Bull would enjoy watching it go up in a pillar of flame._

Then—

_Lavellan is going toe-to-toe with the Venatori mage, flashes and lights erupting from their corner, and Cassandra is tending to a fallen Varric. That leaves the Bull alone with the rest of the Venatori, the hired mercenaries, the thieves avoiding the cells, and the slaves who deserve death’s kindness._

_The Bull has no barriers, no backup, no hope for a last minute save._

_He’s needed this._

_The Bull swings his axe, and it catches a sellsword’s shield. The thing struggles to regain its balance, but its shield holds, just as the it expected. While it is dazed, the Bull pushes back into it, knocking it on its back. He kicks its shield away. He feels the force of it in his toes. He grins, teeth stained with blood, while the thing looks up at him with wide blue eyes that stare beyond the Bull. It stares at death. It stares at its end._

_The Bull roars and brings his axe down, inelegant, raw, and hits the thing’s skull. Bull’s aim is true. The thing’s face is split down the middle, two perfectly symmetrical halves._

_It’s beautiful, gorgeous in its way, the ugly art of battle._

_But it was easy, too easy. The Bull hopes the other two are competent. He can still smell the burning gaatlok, still sees the dreadnought sinking into the Waking Sea._

_The Bull feels sharp and sudden pain, over and over and over. Someone quick and small has walked through the shadows and is frantically attacking his blind side. Good move. The thing is smart._

_He gathers the pain of his wounds and breathes it in as he was taught, an ancient Qun trick, given to Bull because the stens had seen the way he laughs when bones crush beneath him._

_He pulls his axe out of the first thing’s skull. It is smeared with sickly gray brain._

Then— 

The Seheron desert was hot, too hot, nearly unlivable, but it’s where most of the fighting took place. They tried to keep away from the cities and leave the civilians alone. Not that people didn’t live in small desert towns, but there weren’t many of them, and you did what you could in war. 

Seheron had been under Tevinter rule for centuries, but the island had become a point of contention over the past decades. Tevinter had pulled out of some ancient treaty, and Par Vollen took offense. Or something. Hissrad didn’t care for the politics, because it was a vicious reminder of how many people died while men of power ate off of golden plates.

Hissrad was on patrol at the gates, so hot he was exhausted from the mere effort of standing while wearing clothes.

Then there was a sudden flash of light, a large booming noise, and screaming. The base had been attacked.

Hissrad perked up, shifting his weight, waiting for orders to come through the headset. _Finally_ , he thought. _Something to fucking do._

And then—

_He gets two of the robed things at once, leaving them with matching gashes down the middle. He’s giddy at the sight._

And then— 

Headshots were always so satisfying, especially when Hissrad got them right in the middle of the forehead, like he was in a movie.

And then—

_He picks the soldier up, and throws it against the wall. It does not come back up._

And then, and then, and then. Over, and over, and over.

_—_

Bull didn’t know how long he was away from himself, lost in two lives of swords and gore and joy, of gunpowder and shrapnel and release. When he finally came back to himself, he was sitting on Dorian’s couch, Princess patient and concerned across his lap. Bull found himself in Princess’s weight, her smell, the rhythm of her breathing.

He was aware that Dorian sat next to him, not touching him, but present all the same. Bull turned his bleary eye toward him. Dorian was playing on his phone, seemingly nonplussed, as if he were merely waiting for Bull to return from an errand. Slowly, Bull shifted. Dorian glanced over.

“Do you need anything?” he asked calmly. He was calmer about Bull’s freak out than Bull himself. He was acting like he’d done this all before, and was following a well worn path.

Because he had.

“I’m good,” he said, even though he wasn’t. He had never freaked out that suddenly, that obviously, that _vividly_. Flashbacks weren’t pristine memories as much as they were a wild jumble of sounds and smells and waves of banished feelings. With time and counseling, he’d learned it was best to swim through them, rather than pretend they weren’t happening until he drowned. If something bothered him, he’d excuse himself, and deal with it. He didn’t just completely shut down in a hot guy’s home.

Princess nudged her nose at his pocket, where she knew he had his wallet. He gave her the signal to stop alerting, then sighed. “This sucks. Really wanted to fuck you,” he said. He was too shaken, too distracted to convincingly say anything dirtier. It was hard to talk about conquering and control when he could hear screaming.

Dorian laughed softly. “We shall see what the future holds.”

“Yeah,” said Bull. Then he added, “Hell yeah,” because even through the last vestiges of a panic attack, Bull very much wanted Dorian to know he was invested.

“Quite,” said Dorian, his lips quirking into a suppressed smile. He held a hand out to Bull, and Bull took it, letting Dorian pull him into standing.

“What do you think happened?” Bull asked, as Dorian walked him to the front door.

“Any manner of things,” said Dorian. “This building is unbelievably old. Expensive renovations can only do so much.” He sounded too unconcerned to be convincing. He had some theory as to what happened that he wasn’t saying. So did Bull. The tang of metallic magic still burned his nose.

“Yeah. Wiring,” agreed Bull.

Dorian put his hand on the front door, and then let it linger for a moment. “Did this happen because—Well. I mean to say, is it always fire?” asked Dorian, finally exposing some of the discomfort Bull was used to dealing with from others.

“Nah,” said Bull, well practiced at soothing others over his own trauma. “Fire’s fine. Lady who owns Chargers has me over for fancy bonfires sometimes. It’s—just been a weird day.”

As soon as he was out of the building, Princess pulled him to his car. She pawed at his pocket until he took out his wallet and removed the panic meds he kept in there. She jumped into the passenger seat and pawed at the dashboard cabinet. Bull reached in and grabbed a water bottle. He swallowed the pills, then shut his car door.

Rather than drive home, he walked the five blocks, Princess guiding him. He tried to focus his mind, but it was like wrestling with the wind. There was no real way to hold his thoughts, and he felt small and breakable against their force.

This Bull had learned to deal with the darkest parts of himself with meditation and medication. 

That Bull, the Bull in his unwanted memories, had lived in a world of unrefined violence, where there was a place for him, where he was useful.

In some dark place inside of him, somewhere hidden and shameful, this Bull was jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features PTSD flashbacks, war time violence, extreme gore, and blood lust.
> 
> (Also while we're down here, please give a standing ovation to my betas for cleaning up the tense shifts for me.)


	5. Chapter 5

Dorian woke up significantly hungover. He’d finished Ulio’s champagne on his own, and chased it with whatever had been left in his latest box of wine. It hadn’t been enough, not after the wedding, not after the metallic ash-scent of unnatural flames, so he poured himself far too much whiskey and drank it until he slept.

He dreamed.

_Dorian is in the courtyard of the Pavus estates, feet planted on the white marble pavilion, perfectly shoulder length apart. He is young here, hardly six years old. The practice staff in his hand is unbalanced, too heavy. They hadn’t expected his magic to manifest so young. There is a training cross in front of him, glowing with the aftereffects of a spell._

_“I did it!” Dorian says triumphantly. He grins in the unabashed way of children, his face full of it, gaps in his teeth on display._

_“Control yourself, duckling. The demons will always call, even in times of joy,” says his father. But his sternness only lasts a moment, and then he is smiling and gathering Dorian in his arms. He lifts him into the air and they spin. “My boy summoned fire!” he bellows, and even the slaves laugh at the earnestness of a father’s uncontained pride._

Magefire.

It was the only explanation, as wild as it was, as inexplicable, as impossible. But if the Veil had once thickened, then could it not grow thin again? When Dorian had first suspected that his invasive fantasies that felt like memories were magical in nature, he’d thought himself deluded. As a child, he could be found clutching toy staffs, daydreaming about touching the Fade.

But the room still smelled of burned fabric, and there was nothing electrical near that window.The simplest and cleanest explanation was that Dorian had summoned fire last night.

Dorian groped for the water he was certain he’d left on his bedside table, his eyes shut tight against the light. Instead of finding a tepid glass of water, he felt something hard and cold. It sent panic through him, enough to jerk his body upward.

The green amulet had found its way to him again.

He’d tried everything. He left it at a park, put it in a mailbox, even sold it at a pawn shop, and it always returned. If he had to touch it, he did so with his hand covered, terrified of another hallucination.

Anxiety, fear, and his hangover rolled within him and he felt incredibly sick. He leaned against the headboard, and willed his body to settle.

When he was ready, he opened his eyes and stared at the amulet. He remembered the shock of the fire-not-fire, and what it had done to Bull. Whatever was happening was growing dangerous, and it was gathering momentum. Dorian had to be ready to face it.

His fingers hovered over the amulet, and he snatched it from the table in one quick motion. Then—

_The man’s eyes are still open, gray-brown and sharp, though the rest of him is bound in the swirling green mist. He tilts his head to the side, just enough, unable to move much more than that._

_“I thought I would see more of you. I suppose this world has made even a Tevinter wary of magic.”_

_Fear consumes Dorian, coats his throat, blinds his vision. He pushes through, because this man is someone, something to him, vaguely familiar in a way that sinks his stomach and quickens his breath. “Who are you?” he asks._

_“You will know soon enough,” the man says._

Dorian heard the amulet clatter on the floor before he realized it’d slipped from his hand. He looked down, his heart rising with the useless hope that it had shattered, but it remained whole.

Dorian fell back on his bed and shut his eyes, willing away his headache, his nausea, the painful dryness in his mouth, his reality, the world. The ridiculous concert was today, and the idea of actually going made Dorian go numb. He wanted to stay home and resume drinking. He wanted to douse his brain in alcohol and watch movies until he slept. Flashbacks, memories, magefire—there were too many impossibilities in his life to live it raw.

But then he thought of Bull. Strong, sexy Bull, hands on Dorian’s body, heedlessly grunting with primal need, igniting something in Dorian’s very soul. There was something there, something deep, an attraction physical and emotional and _familiar._ It was a relief to feel it again, an unknown ache finally soothed. 

Plus, if Dorian stayed home and drank all his whiskey, he’d then have to buy more whiskey, whereas Bull and Isabela were in charge of providing booze for the concert. If he wanted to drink, he should go and drink for free.

Dorian rolled out of his bed, giving the amulet ample clearance, and he made himself coffee and got ready for the party.

—

The amulet thumped against his chest as he walked to the train station.

Dorian had resigned himself to the bone chilling inevitability of it. What disturbed him was that its weight was becoming a comfort.

—

Most days, CID was thick with human traffic. Today, it was nearly solid. All of Denerim was pressed together, a single organism born from midwinter restlessness, excited to stretch its legs and enjoy the simulated “outdoor” garden. It did nothing for Dorian’s hangover or his mood, and by the time he broke free into the local business wing, he was surly and anxious. 

Dorian knocked on the door to Chargers, and then stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. Bull came out, and Dorian immediately launched into a rant. “Are you aware that Safari is meant for children, and does not exist only for exhausted adults drowning their sorrows after another lively and blessed day in retail? I was brutally reminded of this when I walked by and saw three small children wailing in a fascinating sort of harmony. Perhaps their artistry will one day define our culture! I wish them the best in their musical endeavors. If you look into the bowling alley, you will see the entire array of drugstore box dyes on display. A band of middle-aged men are playing in the rotunda, and it is less of a performance and more of a volume contest. The bassist is winning, by the way. Maker. I must drink something so alcoholic that it burns away the walls of my esophagus immediately, or else I may die.”

“Nice to see you, too,” said Bull with an affectionate smile.

The sight of him made Dorian’s heart skip while simultaneously making him feel safe. A question stuck in his throat about Bull’s—well, panic attack, there was a word for it these days—but he also knew that asking about it would only get brushed away. Bull had his moments, and then liked to leave them where they were. Instead, he threw an arm around Bull’s neck, and pulled him down for a kiss.

They parted just slightly, still pressed together, breathing in one another. “I apologize,” said Dorian with a smile that was more sap than smirk. “Rude of me not to say hello.”

Bull leaned in for another quick kiss. “Hello.”

They parted, and it hit Dorian that their greeting had been of lovers, not two men who had unfinished sex the night before, and both of them had fallen into the pattern unknowingly. A silence bloomed between them, and Dorian opened his mouth to fill the silence with something distracting and witty, but nothing came.

Bull, too, was lost in awkwardness, his confidence and eternal ease equally shaken. He snapped out of it first, and suddenly thrust a bouquet at Dorian, which was the last thing Dorian had expected. 

Dorian blinked and stepped away, tilting his head and staring. He hadn’t even noticed Bull had been hiding something behind his back.

“Allergy free,” he said. “Promise.”

Slowly, Dorian reached out his hand and took the flowers. The bouquet was gorgeous, leaning toward Chargers’ trademark bold colors, blood lotus statement with delphinium fillers. “Allergy free?” he said numbly, still processing the simple fact that he had received flowers.

“Yep. All those times I had something hidden in Princess’s collar or my pocket? Just testing you out.”

Dorian inhaled sharply as a puzzle piece he didn’t know he was missing clicked into place. “That’s… oddly sweet, even if it involves some mild poisoning on my end.”

“Like I said when we met, you should have something pretty.”

Dorian felt stupidly overwhelmed and touched. “I must admit, I’ve never gotten flowers before,” he said.

“Kinda had a feeling,” said Bull.

“This is all so formal,” said Dorian. “Are you asking me to prom?”

“I mean, we’d stand out a little, but if you wanna go we could crash one.”

“Maker, the thought of that,” said Dorian with a fond, soft little laugh.

He thought of Bull’s story, of taking floral design classes to silence the war in his mind. Dorian felt like he was holding more than just flowers.

“Thank you,” he said, earnest and open. “They’re lovely.”

“No problem,” said Bull, as if handing off a (likely expensive) bouquet he had spent months designing around Dorian’s needs was as simple as holding open a door. He jerked his head toward Chargers. “Got a cooler full of beer and a bag full of booze in there. Help me carry ‘em?”

“Oh, if I must,” said Dorian. Bull turned back toward his shop, swinging in with his hand on the door frame. “Incidentally, what _am_ I allergic to?” Dorian asked.

Bull paused and turned toward him, his hand still on the door frame. “Lillies. Crystal grace. Hydrangeas. Stripweed.”

“ _Stripweed?_ ” said Dorian, blinking in shock. “Maker, but that is an ugly plant. What use could it possibly be to a florist?”

_They are traveling through the Western Approach, suffering in the dryness and the heat. Dorian sneezes, and sneezes again, and then it becomes a string. He pulls the reins of his mount, and takes a moment to recover. Bull notices and stops with an annoyed grunt, letting Lavellan and Cassandra get ahead._

_“Drink a potion.”_

_Dorian shuts his aching eyes and sniffs. “And what for? Evidently this blighted desert has given me a fever, and elfroot is hardly effective. I may as well let it melt me.”_

_“You’re not sick. It’s the stripweed.”_

_“What?”_

_“Stripweed. You’ve been sneezing and whining since we got on this path.”_

_“Nonsense. Stripweed is everywhere, and I’ve only just now been afflicted.”_

_“No. It just started appearing on this cliff,” Bull says, so annoyed he’s almost growling. “If you don’t start paying attention to your damn surroundings, you’re gonna end up dying in an ambush.”_

_It’s early in their relationship, and Dorian does not yet know how qunari skin suffers in dry heat, burning quickly without the aid of creams only common on Par Vollen._

_Bull doesn’t like to draw attention to himself, and swallows his misery in polite company. Dorian has breached the barrier from comrade-in-arms to friend to something like a lover, and that means Bull will unconsciously show him his misery through indirect means. It is a thing Krem tells him months later, after Dorian and Bull’s attachment becomes undeniable to themselves and others, and Bull has grown surly after an argument. Krem would put a pause on his distrust of the_ altus _and teach him the language of The Iron Bull._

_For now, Dorian is unaware Bull’s nitpicking is both a sign of pain and, in its way, a sign of trust. Dorian, too, is miserable, and prone to snapping when he’s in a mood. Rather than ask what is bothering Bull, as he would in the future, he says, “What a lovely overreaction.” They end up sniping at each other long enough to lose sight of Lavellan and Cassandra._

_Later that evening, when they come together in mutual apology, Bull will admit to the rawness of his skin, and Dorian will summon cooling mist to his hands and run them down his back._

The memory faded, and Dorian was back in an abandoned hallway of CID, surrounded by closed doors, metal gates, and dim fluorescent lights.

“Bull,” started Dorian, hushed, nervous. “Have you—”

Bull held out a hand. “Later,” he said tightly. He turned back to the shop.

Dorian shifted his weight, his hands clutched around the bouquet. “I agree. But I—I must know. Are we— well. I mean to say, do I feature in your—memories, if we’re to call them that?” Dorian asked, surprising himself with the question, both that he’d pushed against Bull’s request and that he had so bluntly addressed the situation.

Bull kept his back to Dorian, keeping his expression private, though Dorian saw his muscles tense. Then he watched Bull relax. “Yeah,” he said. He paused. “ _Kadan,_ ” he said.

Dorian couldn’t help the wide grin that burst on his face, a slip of his normally controlled composure. “ _Amatus,_ ” he said, knowing those terms became their common form of address, their real names reserved for disappointment and sex.

Bull retrieved Princess, the cooler, and a brown bag of clanging liquor bottles. Dorian looped the bag around his arm so he could hold his bouquet, and placed his hand on the small of Bull’s back. They walked up to the roof together.

When they arrived, Sera immediately shouted at them. “Wazzat? Flowers? You gits finally had a go at it, yeah?”

Somehow, Sera’s alienage-based accent had gotten bolder, even stronger than it was after a few rounds at Safari. Not that she was sober now. She was weaving where she stood, unfocused, a sloppy grin on her face. There was an edge to her, something a bit wild in her eyes, something she was trying to drink away.

Dorian scanned the rooftop, and noted that everyone seemed a bit off. Isabela had an arm loosely around Fenris, and Fenris was letting it stay there, almost as if they were in an actual relationship and not just wholly platonic friends who occasionally fucked. Lavellan was staring off into the distance, absently clutching an ironbark pendant that Dorian had never seen her wear before.

Krem went to Bull’s side immediately, overly tense, standing straight with his shoulders back, a soldier’s stance. “ _That’s_ what you’ve been fussing with all week? You big ol’ sap. Didn’t know you had a romantic bone in your whole body.”

“If it’s romantic for a florist to give out flowers, then a lot of people owe me boxes of chocolates,” he said with a shrug. Then, he burst into a grin. “But his ass looked pretty damn romantic bent over his kitchen counter.”

“And there we are,” said Dorian, rolling his eyes as the Sera cackled. He would normally be fighting a smile, but it wasn’t there. Not because he was particularly upset, but because they were all play-acting at normalcy.

Dorian felt an urge to touch the amulet as a jolt, a need, a compulsion, his whole body buzzing with it. His breath quickened, and the back of his neck went cold. 

Bull put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, and it distracted Dorian just enough to keep his fingers still. He took a deep breath. Bull watched him with clear concern.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, trying not to alert the group to his distress.

“Alright enough,” muttered Dorian. He brought his hand up to the one Bull had on his shoulder and squeezed it, before breaking away with a flamboyant stride. “It is disgustingly cold, and I will continue to complain about it until someone puts a drink in my hand.”

“Maker spare us all,” said Isabela. She poured something into a red solo cup and handed it to him with a knowing look. Dorian took it, sipped, and struggled to keep a straight face.

“Andraste’s dripping nethers, what _is_ this? It is utterly vile.”

Isabela smiled. “Every half-finished bottle of clear liquor I had in my home, with a bit of lemonade. For zest.”

“Well,” said Dorian, lifting his cup up while Fenris poured some of the punch for Bull. “Here, here.”

They heard a distant but roaring cheer, and the concert began.

\---

They heard less of the music and more of each other getting very, gloriously drunk. The anxiety of the day eased, and the biting cold grew tolerable, not due to any change in the weather, but because everyone was too drunk to care. Sera, Bull, and Krem were leaning over the roof’s railing and shouting insults at the crowd, Fenris and Dorian were having a passionate conversation about classic Tevene films, and Isabela and Lavellan were making out for no particular reason. The last performance was reaching a peak, and fireworks were going off in short bursts, warming up for a finale.

When Sera shouted, “They got holographs!” everyone gathered at the railing, squinting down at the dome. The holographs were large enough to identify, moving with an unnatural fluidity and floating halfway up the stage. They wore cloaks that waved with a vicious ferocity, as if there were a monsoon that affected them and only them.

Dorian groaned. “Truly? This?”

“They are very awkward to watch,” said Fenris. “Holograms are pointless.”

“Oh, whatever. It’s fun! Unlike _some_ people,” said Sera. She looked at Fenris pointedly for a beat, and then said, “You,” to drive the point home.

“He’s fun,” said Isabela, and then she slapped his ass. Fenris didn’t react. 

“But why _despair demons_ of all things?” said Dorian.

“Coracavus’s whole schtick is cheesy Pre-Wall imagery,” said Lavellan.

“It’s just—it’s so _inaccurate,_ ” _s_ aid Dorian, gesturing with his drink. He was prone to sudden academic lectures when sober, and they were a guarantee when he’d been drinking. “Despair demons never appeared with cloaks, that was simply Fereldan superstition conflating the look of a demon with traditional mage robes! Now, all the ice spitting you see in demonic depictions, that one happened. It used to be disputed within the community, but in the late 800’s, archaeologists found skulls with magical residue consistent with winter-summoning spells. At least, what we assume were winter spells. I’m sure they will—and yes!”

The crowd went wild as the despair demon projected a stream of dense, vividly blue ice. The screaming was louder than it had been for the entire concert.

“Damn. Those people actually look frozen over. How the hell are they doing that?” asked Bull.

“Plants in the audience, no doubt,” said Fenris.

The crowd’s screaming continued, drawing on far longer than Dorian expected. Dorian clutched the railing tight and leaned over, as if the difference of a few inches would help him see better.

Lavellan put her hand on Dorian’s shoulder. They looked at each other, a mutual understanding traveling between them like electricity, impossible to face but present and so, so real.

The audience had reached a terrified pitch in their screaming, no longer celebrating but panicking. The crowd was moving away from the frozen people like polarizing magnets. Everyone was pushing and shoving and moving as one jerking mass.

“What’s happening,” said Krem. “What the fuck is happening.” Bull took three slow, careful steps backwards, his whole body tense. Princess jumped up from her spot huddled next to a space heater and went to Bull’s side.

“Is this a mass shooting? What a lovely influence The Free Marches has had on us,” said Isabela. She was detached, amused, sounding for all the world as if she were discussing the weather. Dorian knew that meant she was terrified.

_Dorian has never seen a demon outside containment until now, traveling through the Frostback mountains after a sleepless night, his feet blistered in overused shoes._

_He can tell it’s a manifestation of rage from his education. Fade-made lava spits from its rolling mass, and the demon is half-formless, too consumed by its own aspect to hold a consistent shape. He remembers that they are weak, clumsy in their anger, and are easily quieted with spells of piercing cold._

_Dorian has never been the best with ice._

_Dorian considers avoiding the demon. It has yet to notice him, and he could creep against the mountainside and remain out of sight. He begins to, and then images of a mageless southern village burning while the demon feeds plague him. He sighs, clutches his staff, and enters a casting stance._

_“I’ll have you know killing me would be a tragedy,” says Dorian. “I’m too pretty to die.”_

_“Mage,” hisses the demon, sticky black tar pulling between his maw, his insides glowing ember-red._

_Frost begins to grow from his staff’s focusing crystal. “Yes, yes, mage,” he says. “I’m sorry to say I’ve never been tempted by one of yours. Desire, though, there’s a thing. They have a bit more finesse.”_

_Dorian throws his spell at the demon, and Rage bellows._

“They’re real,” said Lavellan, her voice hushed, staring at Dorian. “The demons are real.”

“Shit!” shouted Sera. “Shitting shit shit _shit!”_

“We need to get out of here. A mob will form,” said Fenris, ever practical, calm in the face of panic.

“Best to retreat to T-Tat. We have snacks,” said Isabela airily.

Isabela hurried toward the door. Dorian and Lavellan kept staring out at the glass dome.

“Hey,” said Bull. “We need to go. _Now._ ”

Lavellan held her hand out to Bull with her palm out, a _stop_ motion. She shook her head at him, and Bull went still, waiting. Something had changed in her. She was no longer their carefree bartender, always humming and prone to daydreaming mid-conversation.

She was their commander. 

Lavellan turned back to Dorian. “We don’t have focusing crystals,” she said. “We need them for this kind of distance. Even you. You were—you were strong, I remember.”

“Of course I was,” said Dorian, as haughty as he could manage.

Lavellan looked down at her hand, covered in rings and elven patterns. “Perhaps we have a fulcrum between us. Most of my gems are thrifted, I have no idea of their purity, but this—” Her voice was muffled as she carefully used her teeth to take off a ring inset with a clear blue-white gem. She held it up. “This resonates, somehow, this—”

“I’ve got something,” said Dorian hoarsely. He lifted a shaking hand and paused, just for a moment, his fingers twitching in the air. 

This was a moment of weight, a moment that lay between two lives. There was the life Dorian had known, and then there was whatever lay in the future, born from demons beneath a glass dome, a life with all of Dorian’s childhood dreams and adult fears. He had a choice. He could go back to the Tattoo parlor, wait out the coming mob. He could let the amulet follow him his whole life, becoming an annoyance more than a horror.

But could he?

Dorian wrapped his fingers around the amulet.

_He knows, now, that the shimmering mist around him is the power of the Fade, dream-stuff without form, waiting for a sleeping mind to give it purpose. The man bound by it, who looks at Dorian with expectation, is still unknown, though he is no longer frightening._

_“We must stop meeting like this,” says Dorian dryly._

_“I see you are growing aware,” says the man. “Know that I am sincerely sorry for my early return. If circumstances had allowed it, I would have given you more time.”_

_Dorian looks at him, not sure of the man’s meaning, but feeling rage rise within him all the same. The memories are out of reach, but the pull of them grows strong._

_He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and searches inward. The steps are unknown, but familiar, and when he feels the deep pool of power in his heart, he knows he has succeeded._

Fire erupted from him in a flare of heat and smoke, forming a column that went for a Despair demon like a laser, amplified and directed by the amulet. It wasn’t his strongest. The Dorian of the past had been able to do more with his arms tied behind his back, but this Dorian could cast well enough to break through the glass.

The column of bright orange magefire hit the demon, and its shriek was loud enough Dorian thought the entire city might have heard it. It crumbled right away, dissolving into Fade material, just as unpracticed in its form as Dorian was in his magic. The fire faded, leaving an orange after image in the sky. A firework exploded above it, a bright blue star, dripping sparks.

There was another demon, the one that appeared on the right of the stage, flanking the band. Dorian reached again for that well of power, and found that his pool was almost dry. He remembered that the pool was called mana, and it was a sort of muscle that gave out when pushed beyond capacity. He felt himself go weak, and he clutched the railing with his free hand to stay upright.

Dorian heard gunshots, multiple gunshots, and watched as a throng of cops took down the demon. Funny, that modern weapons would vanquish such an ancient creature. Dorian laughed darkly, then felt himself collapse under his own weight, no longer able to hold himself up even with the aid of the railing.

Bull caught him, steady Bull, as quick and aware as the past-Bull had been. He gathered Dorian in a fireman’s carry, and took him down the stairs.

“This is demeaning,” croaked out Dorian.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Bull. He paused, then spoke distantly, simultaneously fond and fearful of his words. “You used to say that every time you did something damn stupid and I’d have to haul your heroic ass back to camp.”

Dorian chuckled, just slightly. “Perhaps. You seemed to think I had endless mana, and you would take more blows with your ridiculous mass than Cassandra would with her shield, assuming I could knit your bones back together on a whim.”

“Kept my bones, didn’t I?”

“If you did or did not has yet to come to me,” said Dorian distantly. He focused on gathering his strength, finding some of it in Bull’s steady arms.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! When we last left our heroes, running away from a potential growing mob that could lead to violence, George Floyd was still alive. I came back to this chapter and was a little thrown by the characters hiding from a potential riot, which is something some of us have since actually had to do, myself included. I'm just giving a quick warning for that, and also please know that Black lives matter.

Bull came back to T-Tat after sprinting across the hall to grab Princess’s food, preparing to be stuck in there if the panicked crowd turned to violence and looting. They hadn’t descended upon the local business wing, but they would. The shouting was getting louder.

Bull locked the door behind him, stepping into the tense atmosphere. Thick curtains were drawn over the large storefront windows, and the room was dimly lit with computer screens. Everyone was dead quiet. No one wanted to draw the mob’s attention.

Bull pulled a chair up to the front, and sat next to the door. Princess put her paws on his lap, questioning, and Bull gave her the signal to stop alerting and lie down. He wasn’t meant to be Hissrad Bull right now, once confined inside by his craving for violence, now able to trust himself with the aid of a mabari. He needed to be The Iron Bull, a shield made of muscle, hungry for battle. No wonder the nickname had appeared independently in his life over and over, following him from Par Vollen to Denerim, an echo from one thousand years ago.

_ He sits at the edge of camp, back against a tree, sinking down into a familiar place of peaceful awareness. He hears footsteps behind him, too confident to be a threat. He senses more than sees Lavellan rest next to him, careful to place herself on his good side. _

_ “It’s not your watch,” she says. _

_ “Dorian needs the sleep.” _

_ “He said he was fine.” _

_ “Yeah. He does that.” Bull jerks his head in the direction of the freshly captured Caer Bronach. “He started running on potions back there, and he has a shit time with lyrium drag. Not that he’ll admit it.” _

_ Lavellan smiles. “And how’d you convince him to give up his watch?” _

_ “I didn’t. I just said we could switch, and I’ll let him know when it’s his turn. He’ll keep sleeping if I don’t.” _

_ She laughs a little, and knocks their shoulders together. “You  _ like _ him.” _

_ “Not exactly a secret.” _

_ Lavellan places both her hands in her lap, arranged to hide the Mark, and she stares down at them. “It’s just nice to see,” she says quietly, the post victory exhaustion making her more candid than she usually was these days. “At least some of us are happy.” _

_ Bull looks over at her, tracing the shape of her jaw with his eye, her face unchanged yet so different without the  _ vallaslin.  _ Bull still isn’t used to it, and Bull can tell she regrets letting Solas take it. _

_ “He’s a dick.” _

_ “You could have told me that a year ago.” _

_ “Next time, boss.” _

Dorian was in Fenris’s tattoo chair, slowly eating a cheese and cracker snack pack, a bottle of acid-green sports drink on his lap. Dorian would normally bemoan all the chemicals and sugar, but he was silent now, conscious but just barely so. Isabela was hovering over him, surprisingly motherly, a skill formed from dealing with squeamish clients and used with her friends when they needed it.

Fenris was hunched over his tablet, intently sketching, and Bull identified it as unintentional meditation. Sera was furiously texting, a leg bouncing, terror pure on her face. Krem was much calmer, scrolling through his phone rather than texting, likely looking at news feeds.

And Lavellan was staring at Tevinter Tattoo’s giant mirror, the one right at the entrance, dusty and tarnished at the edges.

Bull figured it was as good an activity as any. He’d always liked the mirror, after all. It was hideously gaudy, which was Bull’s favorite aesthetic. He focused on it, mentally tracing the curls of the frame, the cheesy dragon motif. Without realizing it, he had gone slack, his mouth slightly open, lost in the mirror’s depths. Then there was a shudder in the reflection, something he couldn’t quite place, some kind of color moving beneath the glass, swirling, reflecting—

He snapped back to himself and looked away.

Sera was the one to break the silence, tossing her phone on her desk in a burst of energy, jumping to her feet. “That fire! From Dorian! Dorian did fire! Poncey pants cast a  _ spell _ !” 

“Ponce,” said Dorian, as amused as he could manage. “A bit less bite to it in this century. Next you’ll be calling me a cur, or perhaps a yankee doodle.”

“Yeah, well, this is the century we’re in, so—foppish cuntrag!”

“And is it the only century we’ve been in, or has there been another?” asked Fenris quietly. He didn’t look up from his tablet.

“’Course it’s the only one,” Sera scoffed. “Right?”

_ Sera enters the inn and makes a straight line for Bull, so focused and solemn that Bull worries she has a terrible message for him. _

_ “Mercenary band’s coming. Tal-vashoth. Something about their people getting all imprisoned just ‘cause they were at the Temple of Sacred Asses, even if they weren’t doing anything. Racist, that.” _

_ “Don’t disagree,” says Bull, still suspicious.  _

_ “So how do I say ‘I want you to sit on my face’ in Qunish?” _

_ “Oh! That’s easy!” _

When the memory passed, Bull saw Sera suck air between her teeth, like she’d been stung. He raised his eyebrow at her.

“And it worked, right?”

Sera blinked at him, owlish, her anxiety and fear so overwhelming she had gone still and was speaking slowly. “Her name was Shokrakar. Big smile. Big muscles. Big tits. Big—big.” She sat down suddenly, like her body had given up, and she hid her face in her hands. Her words came out muffled. “It’s true, then. The not-memories are  _ real _ memories and it was really demons and that was really magic and—and I’ve been dreaming.”

“Right,” sad Fenris, throwing down his pen and picking up his tablet, seemingly more annoyed than afraid. He held the drawing out to the room. Bull leaned forward to get a better view.

When he saw it, he made an unconscious noise, something between a disapproving grunt and a growl of pure fear.

Lavellan pulled herself away from the mirror to gape, and Sera let out a string of the foulest words she knew, from both lives.

Fenris had drawn the hawk from Bull’s dreams, its beak open in a silent screech.

“As I suspected,” said Fenris grimly.

Isabela’s eyes were bouncing between Bull, Sera, Fenris, and Lavellan. “I’ve been, unfortunately, following everything up to this point, and the knowledge I was apparently a pirate is delightful, but you’ve lost me here. Beautifully rendered, though. I knew I hired you for a reason.”

“You never dreamed about that thing?” asked Lavellan. “It’s been nearly every night for me.”

Princess, deciding she’d obeyed Bull long enough, put her paws on his lap again. This time, Bull let her stay, rubbing absently behind her ears. “Yeah,” he said, his voice sounding distant. “Me too.”

He felt Krem come near him, hovering like an overprotective father after seeing Princess’s behavior. The thing about needing something on the outside to warn you about what you’re feeling on the inside is that everyone else could see it, too. It was a shitty trade off. “Really?” asked Krem. “I haven’t dreamed at all.”

Dorian took out his amulet, the green one shaped like a simple cube, and cupped it in both hands. He stared down at it. “My dreams have been rather preoccupied,” he said, almost whispering.

Then, the mirror flared with a light so bright they all flinched away and covered their eyes.

It wasn’t a flash as much as it was a blink, a moment of darkness that came and passed, then came again. When the light had cleared, the mirror swirled with color, shades of purple and blue, almost like an oil spill. Terror crawled down Bull’s spine, not of the mirror, but of how strongly it called to him.

Krem, ever quick on his feet, grabbed a paperweight from Dorian’s receptionist area. He pulled his arm back to throw, but Fenris somehow moved from across the room to Krem in a blur, catching Krem’s wrist. Bull knew Fenris boxed as a hobby, but Fenris’s speed was unnatural, far beyond physical fitness. They both seemed equally surprised about it.

Fenris recovered first. “No,” he said. “Leave it.”

“This isn’t exactly a priceless heirloom,” drawled Isabela, desperately pretending she was above all this. Her tone was dismissive, but her posture was rigid. “It’s from a yard sale, priced at ten royals. I haggled it down to five.” 

“That’s not it,” said Fenris. He and Krem looked at each other, coming to some understanding, and Fenris loosened his grip. Krem shook out his arm and took a few steps backwards, eying Fenris warily.

Lavellan went toward the mirror, the enraptured look back on her face. The light reflecting off the mirror’s surface sparkled in her eyes. “It’s calling to me,” she said.

Bull understood. The antique drew him to it like it was drinking him, taking him. He felt like he was being sipped at slowly by someone in no hurry, because those in control did not need to rush.

“Shit. I remember. It’s an elvian,” said Sera. “Shit. Luffluvian. Something. It’s elfy.”

“Eluvian,” said Dorian, not looking up from the necklace cradled in his hands. “A network of magicked mirrors used by the elvhen. Not much information is known about them. What was written is assumed to have been lost in the Fall of Minrathous.”

“We have no option but to go,” said Fenris, his eyes, like Bull’s, glued on the eluvian.

Isabela stood, grabbing the bag with all their booze. “We don’t?” she said. “Because I’d much rather eat my own toenails, personally.” 

Fenris raised an eyebrow at her. “You don’t feel called?”

“Not in the slightest,” she said. She spoke with an effortless conviction, one that rang true according to both Bull’s  _ ben-hassrath _ training, and what he knew of Isabela. Isabela was magnificent at convincing, but terrible at lying.

Fenris then addressed Krem. “And you? You claimed not to have dreamed of the bird. Do you then not feel called to the mirror?”

“Depends,” said Krem, and Bull knew what he meant by that. Bull sighed, keeping his focus on Princess.

“And so we are brought to Dorian,” said Fenris. 

Dorian hesitated, his long fingers absently drumming against the armrest. Finally, he said, “I wish I weren’t.”

At first, no one moved. The moment was too big, a doom-filled unknown, horror at the edges of it. Then, Lavellan straightened her shoulders and marched forward, the perfect picture of a commander. She did it like it was something she did daily, like it was effortless, like it was nothing to be feared. The Lavellan of this world was a sweet, gentle pacifist, prone to staring off into space and rambling conversations about the cosmos, and personally, Bull would have never given her control of an army. But in the past, one had been handed to her, and she had grown bitter and hard with the burden of it. She moved like she had back then, the weight of the world obvious on her shoulders.

She stepped in, and the eluvian rippled behind her, then settled.

Fenris followed without a word. Bull considered him for a moment. In this life, Bull knew his bar order, his preferences in lovers, his preference for books over movies. He even knew bits and pieces of his past, like that his tattoos were made from dangerous lyrium-infused ink that could have killed him, and that his life had been so fucked up he hadn’t cared at the time. His memories of Fenris in the other life were nearly absent, and he got the sense he only knew Fenris in passing through Dorian.

Once the other two elves were through, Sera let loose another string of creative expletives, this time involving Andraste’s entire anatomy, and jumped in with her eyes closed and nose plugged. He’d liked Sera back then, a lot. She even traveled with The Chargers from time to time, often disappearing with Skinner and Dalish for long—and loud—periods of time. She was the same now as she was then, following her large heart without thought for consequence, and effortlessly escaping law enforcement whenever they got in the way of her doing what she thought was right.

“Well,” said Isabela as Sera disappeared. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be stress eating. Join me if you’d like,” she said, walking briskly into her office.

That left only Dorian, Krem, and Bull.

Dorian slowly pushed himself up from the chair, pulling strength out of a body that had none. Bull put an arm around his shoulder. He could feel Dorian begin to push him away, then stop, and then lean closer into him. It was an admittance of weakness, and that was only reserved to a very trusted few.

“You alright?” asked Bull.

Dorian paused. “No,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Yeah. Me either,”

Dorian closed his eyes for a moment, clutching his amulet. He took a deep, shaking breath, something that playacted at confidence but was not.

“Well. Shall we?” asked Dorian.

Bull put a hand on Princess, reassuring himself with the familiar feel of her fur. “Give me a minute,” he said.

Dorian glanced at Krem, then nodded. Dorian disappeared into the mirror.

Once they were alone, Krem crossed his arms over his chest, the picture of stubborn defiance.

“If you’re going in, I’m going in.”

“No,” said Bull firmly. “Whatever is happening, you and Isabela are playing a different part. This isn’t for you.”

“But—”

“Go to Krem,” said Bull to Princess. She went to him obediently, solemnly, and stood at his side.

“You know you’re her favorite babysitter,” said Bull softly.

“Chief—” started Krem, but Bull gave him a look that Krem understood perfectly in this life and the last. There were times when they had argued with each other, and there were times when one of them had made it very clear there was to be no argument. The other would still push, sometimes, but they were both practical people, and they knew when a decision was a good one. Whatever was behind the mirror was not safe, and if Krem wasn’t called to the danger, there was no reason for him to jump in. Krem knew that as well as Bull. 

Krem placed one hand on Princess, a service dog trained to always be with someone, who was sensitive to emotions and became stressed when they ran too high, who should be with someone familiar and beloved when she was not with her handler. Krem scratched behind her ears.

“Alright,” said Krem softly.

Bull walked to the eluvian slowly, his footsteps heavy and dull in the empty room.

He glanced back at Krem one last time. “Hey. If I don’t come back, promise me you’ll never stop—”

Krem let go of Princess to hold out his hand. “No! You’re banned from that one!”

“C’mon!” Bull said, grinning and almost feeling it. “One more time.”

“Ugh.”

_ Bull is armored to the teeth, every bit of metal shining, every tear stitched. Krem has been fussing with it for the past week, polishing to reassure himself that things could be okay, mending to ensure survival.  _

_ Bull has easily made peace with the coming battle. He has long been comfortable with death, happy to accept it, if not in service to the Qun, then for the greater good. Krem is far more agitated about it, not ready to lose him. _

_ Krem wipes a bit of imaginary dirt off of Bull, frowning, fidgeting. Bull puts a hand on his shoulder. _

_ “Hey,” he says gently. “I got a favor to ask.” _

_ “What,” asks Krem, who has been with him long enough to sense when a pun was coming. _

_ Bull grins broadly. “Never stop—” _

“—making the ladies Krem themselves.”

Krem scoffed in disgust, but then he softened and gave a small smile. He held his right fist up with the pinky and thumb extended. “Horns up!”

Bull laughed softly. His memories were still puzzle pieces, handfuls falling in uncontrolled intervals, but he knew Krem was made of solid rock no matter the century, and that he had saved both of Bull’s lives.

“Horns up,” said Bull.

Krem nodded at him, then went toward Isabela’s office, calling for Princess to follow.

Bull walked through the eluvian and knew, undeniably, that he would not be returning.

—

Bull wasn’t sure what he had expected walking through an eluvian to feel like. Painful, maybe, or like a cascade of water. Instead, it felt like a thousand tiny pinpricks all over his skin, so many at once that he processed it as a sort of physical white noise, strange but not painful.

When he was through, he found himself on a small piece of land, seemingly floating in a gray, desolate sky. There was some kind of pond in the middle, made of thick, green liquid, spitting out green smoke. Dorian let go of Bull’s hand and stood over it, staring into the pond’s depths.

Bull turned back to the mirror and checked to see if would take them back, touching it with an open palm. It was solid now. Wherever they were, they were stuck there.

“Tried that already. Kicked it. Prolly a bad idea. Smashing it wouldn’t’ve helped,” said Sera. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and the fear in her eyes was wild and unapologetic. “’Least it’s kinda pretty here. Sort of. In a too much way.”

“The hell are you talking about? Everything’s gray,” said Bull, somehow even more creeped out. Judging by how wide Sera’s eyes went, she felt the same.

The pond in the center of the island suddenly erupted in a column of green, a torrent that reached for the sky, a waterfall in reverse. 

All of them instinctively fell into some sort of battle stance, Sera going low to the ground, Bull and Fenris stepping forward to defend, Dorian in a casting stance. And Lavellan—

The space where Lavellan’s right arm came short had now become a sword made of solid, bright light.

The column began to settle, it’s upside-down pour moving slower, and they began to see the shape of a man inside. He was elven, draped in wolf pelts, and he watched them with a patience that chilled Bull to the bone.

“You,” whispered Dorian.

Everything turned to chaos.

Lightning crackled around the column, and then it glowed, as if it were about to release a charge. Bull grabbed Dorian by the back of his shirt, throwing him behind his body. He glanced behind him, just to ensure Dorian was okay, and watched Dorian pull out the amulet. Bull noticed it was the same green as the upside-down waterfall. 

Dorian fumbled with the pendent, then started mumbling something that sounded like Tevene-but-not. A shadow fell over them as the column grew even brighter, flaring out, and then Bull heard the sickeningly familiar sound of beating wings. He looked up, and saw the nightmare hawk that had been plaguing him, pitch black, impossibly large. It started to land and, in a blink, it had shifted into a woman with short dark brown hair. The only thing stopping Bull from screaming over and over and over was his military training.

The not-bird held a mage’s staff, a real one, scuffed wood and sparkling gems and a blood-rusted blade. She began to sweep it out in a wide arc. 

Dorian held out his amulet, and yelled a word in an inhuman pitch.

The too bright, heated light spread out from the column of green at a speed no one could dodge.

The bird-person’s staff made the air shimmer.

Dorian’s pendant made the air bend.

Everything hit all at once, leaving them in a small dome surrounded by nothing but white. They all looked at each other, and then at the newcomer who was dusting off her armor. Now that Bull had his eye on her, he saw that she was not quite human, her form was constantly warping, shifting. She went translucent, then she solidified, then the cycle happened all again. It was like she was underwater, like she was a signal that wouldn’t quite connect. 

She had a swipe of red paint over her nose, too neat to be a splatter of blood, but mimicking it all the same.

“Hey Fenris!” she said cheerfully, the sloppy grin on her face at odds with her terrifying everything else. “You’re still hot! That’s awesome.” She gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, stuttering afterimages following her movements. 

Fenris studied her, his fists clenched at his side. “Do I remember you from…?”

“One thousand-ish years ago? Yep, that’s me! Like, actually me, same body and everything. It’s this whole thing.”

“Alright. Then focus,” he said, with the air of someone very used to saying those particular words to a particular person.

Her expression changed, honoring the gravity Bull would have expected from a woman who moved like a glitch and had also been a monster bird. “My barrier will hold longer than Dorian’s haste spell, but neither will last long. I’ve got a lifetime’s worth of exposition, and that’s gonna be much easier if you go ahead and destroy that fulcrum.”

Dorian took a step backwards, glaring at the bird person. “Why should I trust you?”

“My beautiful blue eyes? My disarming charm?” she asked, smiling. And then her smile faded into something more sinister. “Or maybe because you don’t really have an option.”

Dorian wrapped the chain around his hand, pulling up the pendant, which he tightened his fist around. He looked at Lavellan for guidance. 

“She’s right,” said Lavellan quietly.

Dorian took a deep breath, and then he threw the amulet at the ground. It shattered into dust.

And then, all at once, Bull remembered everything.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull remembers his past life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _wanders into my own fanfic fifteen minutes late with Starbucks_
> 
> Hi, I wanted to write this entire thing in one go so I could control the flow, so I took five months to write around 20k. And then took out 7k because it had nothing to do with anything and is now in jail, where it will stay until I have time to convert it to a separate fic. Basically I am a neurotic control freak _but_ I'm about to hit you with a whole bunch of stuff at once.
> 
> Also, things are about to get very, very sad. I'm hoping it's the good kind of sad, the sort of sad readers want out of a complex story that makes them feel a deeper connection to the characters. Because the whole concept of this fic is to twist, I want to say my intention is not to smugly go "GOTCHA!" tone wise and give everyone a downer ending for the sake of thinking myself very clever. Not that I can control how anyone reacts to what I'm doing, of course, and I cannot promise this won't veer into a place you won't want to follow, but that's true of anything I or anyone else writes. Basicallyyyy what I'm saying is we're going to go down a road, but I'm not trynna be a white male producer of a TV show beloved by queers about it. You know what I mean? You feel me? I have an ending in mind I hope will be romantic and satisfying and exciting. But the past life stuff is, you know.
> 
> There's a reason they had to be reborn.

This is what Dorian remembers:  
  


His first life is defined, as most lives are, by an erratic pattern of shadow and light.

He sees his early childhood as a consistent glow. He sees that light dim when his desires settle, his brashness grows, and he becomes someone his father could not understand. Yet still, there is happiness shown in flashes, rare but present.

He sees his years with Alexius as a wash of solid light, a pride and contentment he thought would last. 

It did not. 

Darkness drips over the years after Livia’s death, beginning as a trickle and then becoming a flood. His memories are sparser here, washed away by liquor, and Dorian does not miss them.

He does not look at his time as his father’s prisoner.

Then there is the Inquisition and the blinding brightness that comes with experiencing open acceptance with no expectations. He makes a family there, forms a foundation of personal security that would lead him back to Tevinter. 

Then lead him to Felicia.

Then lead him to a tower in Minrathous with a dragonbone dagger gripped in his shaking hand.

Fenris, Sera, Lavellan, Bull. 

There is guilt and panic there. He knows what must be done.

He begins to grab their memories greedily, messily, ignoring his parents and Alexius and Felix and Maevaris. 

(Felicia he saves for last, to savor, to soothe. He had loved her until his dying breath and gave her the best life he could. He trusts she lived happily beyond his lifespan. He must.)

He starts with Bull.

—-

Their love story begins with the promise of a rough, filthy, utterly debauched night of fucking. 

Bull initiates and Dorian resists, first and foremost because Bull is hardly Dorian’s type. He’s amusing enough, but unapologetically loud, and carries on a bit too long when he is in a mood. He insists that oils and soaps smell worse than body scents, which Dorian finds repugnant. He makes a show of respecting boundaries, but only when it suits him, and he is especially uninterested in Dorian’s.

Then there is the issue of their friendship if they could call it that, all wrapped up in what passed for their jobs. Dorian had attempted to sleep with men with whom he shared professional spaces. It had never gone well.

But Bull is not without his allure. He isn’t a striking beauty, not like the men that had caught Dorian’s heart in his throat before with their long limbs and muscle. It is Bull’s confidence, his strength, his swagger, and all the rumors around Skyhold that generously backed up his claims of sexual prowess. 

There is more. 

There is the gentleness in Bull’s voice when he dresses Dorian’s field wounds, the steady warmth of his body when they share a tent, the way his smile looks in the dying light of a campfire. 

When Bull takes blows with his battered body, he gives freely something of himself to whom he protects, be it skin or blood or fingers or an eye, and he asks for nothing in return. He shares unconditional kindness with anyone who would have it. If he is offering his dick to Dorian, it was only polite to take it.

So they fuck. 

They’re too drunk for anything interesting the first time, settling for over-eager rutting and clumsy groping. Dorian gives a sloppy blowjob and leaves before Bull can return the favor. 

Bull finds him the next day and says they should try again. Dorian tells him it was a mistake in a tight voice, and that they should remain professional for the good of the Inquisition.

That night, he drinks ale instead of whiskey, swimming in alcohol rather than drowning. The promise of conquering is thoroughly made good upon.

It continues, night after night, stuttering into habit. 

——

He is with the Bull for the better part of five years. 

For the first two years, they create something at Skyhold with equal hesitancy, both unskilled at love and afraid to name what they built between them. In time, they begin to trust that they have something solid and sure, and use words like ‘partner’ and ‘ _ kadan _ ’ and ‘ _ amatus _ ’ and even ‘love.’

Happy as they may be, they are both outgrowing Skyhold. Dorian focuses more and more on Maevaris’s letters and Bull leaves with the Chargers on every job, even the small ones. They are not meant to work for an institution Bull does not believe in and Dorian does not agree with.

When Dorian first leaves for Minrathous, they agree it would be best to end it, painful but logical, disinfecting and dressing a wound before it festers. The pragmatism does not stop them from crying, quiet sobs buried in each other’s chests. It is the most embarrassing thing Dorian has ever done, yet he plays the moment over and over when missing Bull becomes too painful to ignore.

Months later, when Dorian learns of the exalted council, he writes a wine-stained letter he shouldn’t have written and sends it before he sobers. His reply comes in the form of a crushing hug that feels more like home than Tevinter ever could, and a heartbreakingly earnest confession later in the evening.

He owes it to his home country to wash it of its corruption, and he owes it to his heart to stay with The Iron Bull.

So they do their best.

For a while, it’s happy.

—

The lowest moment of his life happens over the course of two weeks, or so he understands. At the time, Dorian had not been able to follow the passing of days.

It begins when he is ambushed on his way to a villa in Nevarra.

He handles it neatly. His spellwork had been honed in life-or-death battles instead of the dueling grounds, and he is constantly underestimated by his enemies. He would think very little of the attack, had it not happened on his way to meet Bull.

Dorian’s relationship is the most precious of his secrets, guarded to the point of paranoia. It’s not that he is ashamed. He often fantasizes about bringing Bull to a ball, dressing him up in fine Tevinter robes of dark blues and black accented with green-gray to bring out his eye. He imagines sauntering around with his  _ tal-vashoth _ on his arm, a head and a half taller than even the most impressively bred  _ altus _ , rugged and handsome and taboo. The scandal would be delicious.

It’s a fleeting fancy and nothing more. All magisters wore theoretical targets on their chests, but their loved ones wore them too, bigger and in brighter shades. If the Venatori learned of Dorian’s affections, Bull would die. It was as simple as that.

The existence of the Nevarran house is buried under mountains of paperwork, and can only be discovered if someone knew exactly what they were looking for. When he goes to visit Bull, he makes it look like he hasn’t left Qarinus, often through illusionary magic. The only person who knows he had a paramour at all is Maevaris, and she has no specific information. Maevaris has never asked to know more. She knows all too well of the danger of openly loving someone.

An attack on the path to Nevarra means someone knew about the villa. Dorian can only hope they don’t know what the visits were for.

Bull is already there when Dorian arrives. Dorian dismounts his horse and walks toward Bull with a too-wide grin.

“You’ve beat me again!”

“ _ Kadan _ ,” says Bull, his arms outstretched. Dorian presses himself into his lover’s embrace, breathing in the smell of him, letting his familiar form slow his racing heart.

Bull stiffens. He pushes him away, keeping hands wrapped around Dorian’s forearm.

“What happened,” he asks, tone stern, forever a  _ ben-hassrath _ beneath it all.

“Come again?”

“Don’t bullshit me. I know what your creepy corpses smell like. It’s all over you.”

Dorian opens his mouth, intending to lie, and then he sighs. Lying never goes very far with Bull, and Bull does not appreciate it when someone tries. “Bit of a scuffle. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“I’m pretty damned concerned.”

Dorian waves dismissively. “Some opportunist must have seen me leave and thrown together an adorable little band of assassins. I’ve admittedly grown careless with my tracks, but I swear, I hardly broke a sweat. Can I convince you to lecture me later? Perhaps creatively, using implements of a scandalous nature?”

Bull stared at him, unmoving. Dorian saw that he was taking quick, shallow breaths. “Can’t brush this away. It was a warning.”

“A bit dramatic for a warning, don’t you think?”

“That’s the ‘Vint way.”

And Dorian deflates, all the denial he’d been holding slipping away. He closes his eyes, opens them, and speaks softly.

“There is a chance they only knew where I was going and not why,” he says. He thinks of how often he has swallowed Bull’s name, or avoided conversations about Ellana Lavellen’s qunari. “I’m certain, in fact. If you leave now—”

“No,” says Bull. There is anger in his voice. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“ _ Amatus _ —”

“If whoever is after you doesn’t know about me, then they haven’t planned for me.”

Dorian sighs, feeling very tired. “This is wasting time we don’t have.”

“Why the hell do you think I can’t defend myself?”

Dorian flinches.

Those words draw a sword for a promised duel, one that had been brewing between them for months and months.

“I’m sick of this shit,” says Bull. Dorian knows he is terrified, can see it clearly in his eyes. He also knows it’s not the time for this fight. 

He says nothing anyway. 

“You know how many times you’ve used the crystal blackout drunk, rambling about how glad you are that I’m safe ?”

“I’m sure—”

“Four times. Four fucking times.”

Dorian steps away from Bull and begins to pace. He is never still when he’s angry. Bull remains rigid. 

They are complementary, even in this. 

“You cannot come to Minrathous. Not as my slave, not as my bodyguard, not as my—Maker forbid—open lover. You would be miserable, for one—”

“Don’t tell me what I’d feel.” 

“—and you would also be under constant threat! The second I step away from you—”

“I’ve been trained to kill since I was a kid,” says Bull. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” 

Dorian pauses in his pacing. He takes a deep breath. They need to resolve the conversation, and they need to leave. “Yes, of course, but this is different. I am one of seven magisters openly speaking out against the war, and I’ve proven quite difficult to kill. The threats against you would be constant. Even  _ you _ would grow exhausted.”

“Six isn’t all that different from seven,” says Bull gruffly. “If you won’t let me come with you, then stay here with me.”

And Dorian’s grip on his temper loosens once again.

“You would have me play housewife with you as the galavanting mercenary?” he hisses. “Shall I learn to sew? Spend my days making jams and pies?”

“I never said you should do nothing.”

“Yet you’re asking me to spend every moment when you’re not by my side worried that you’ve been dismembered and laid on our bed in pieces?” he says. He makes a dismissive gesture, circling his wrist, and speaks mockingly “That won’t happen, of course. It’s been done far too many times and considered quite gauche. I’m sure my enemies would come up with something  _ much  _ more creative.”

Bull waits for Dorian to be done with his tirade, then reaches in and grabs at the heart of it. “That’s what you’ve been asking me. And I’ve done it.”

“Hardly,” snaps back Dorian. “Can you negate a blood-fueled mind control spell with nulling magic learned from spirits of Equity?”

“I can feel it coming and shove an axe down their throat.”

“Bull.”

“There’s damn good work to do outside Tevinter.”

“I’m trying to shift an entire national tide!”

“I know. It won’t happen.”

Dorian sharply sucks in air. 

Bull softens, just a little, and speaks quietly. “The kind of change you want has never trickled down from the top,  _ kadan _ .”

Dorian grows cold.

“Do you think my work is a child’s oblivious playacting?”

“No,” said Bull, calm and prepared but distant from himself. “I just think you should look at history.”

These things have been said, but in quick side steps, slipped between words and gently packaged with affectionats. These stances have been known to each other and were becoming more and more difficult to suppress. Dorian has prepared for this fight, suspected it, and yet when faced with the reality he’s more hurt than he’d ever imagined.

“We have made changes!” he says, nearly shouting. “There are far more than seven supporters, they are merely silent ones, and every day we are out there they get louder and louder, we’ve blocked laws, we’ve turned around—”

“It’s damn good work,” says Bul, preternaturally composed. “Great kindling for a revolt. Get out of there before it happens.”

“But I thought you wanted to come! To stand by my side, a willing target for any mage with a knife and a young, healthy elf!”

“I’ve fought more ‘Vints than you.”

Bull sounds only half interested, like they are discussing dinner. It feeds into Dorian’s anger, even if he knows this is a sort of trance for Bull, something he enters when he is wounded deeply. It’s hard to remember that when Dorian is terrified and hurt and in love.

“ _ Vishante kaffas _ , do you think we send our best and brightest to fucking Seheron? You fought expendable third-borns and  _ laetons _ who never managed to impress anyone! You know nothing of  _ real  _ magic!”

The final nail had been hammered.

Dorian closes his eyes and breathes. “I apologize. That was more than a little out of line.”

He waits for Bull to offer his own regrets, to tell Dorian he was wrong to say the Lucerni was a useless endeavor.

Bull says nothing.

Dorian does not take back his words.

Dorian runs his hands down his face and pace in place, turning away from Bull.

“ _ Amatus _ —” he starts, but then he hears a loud  _ crack _ , something that sounds like an axe against a tree.

He thinks he hears the snapping of a bone. 

He turns back around.

Bull is standing with his fist through the wall. There is blood on his wrist and in the splinters, not gushing or pooling but simply there like purposefully applied paint. His face is tilted down, but he is looking past the floor and into something deep within him.

“ _ Amatus _ ,” repeats Dorian. He steps forward, already twisting the fade around him, green healing mist in his fist. Bull holds out his uninjured hand.

“Go to Kirkwall,” he says without tone. “Guy named Fenris lives there. Good man. Hates ‘Vints. Will hate you, too. Tell him you know me and Varric. Still might try and kill you anyway.”

“Might?”

Slowly, Bull retracts his hand. He tries to uncurl it, then stops. Dorian is sure he’s broken a knuckle or two. Even at his strongest, Bull should have winced, just a little, some small sharp intake of breath. He doesn’t seem to feel it.

“Met him on Seheron. He’s damn good at taking out mages. Someone put magic crap in his blood, so maybe you’ll believe it,” he says and finally, finally, there is anger. 

Dorian knows that is not a good sign.

“I only meant—”

“Stop,” he says, his voice grit and gravel.

Dorian swallows something down, unsure if it was a sob or a scream. Bull has insulted the Lucerni. Dorian has invalidated the battles that had torn Bull apart. 

Dorian breathes in deeply. “You will keep the crystal?” he asks.

Bull grunts, and pulls it from his pocket, holding it up for Dorian to see.

“I’ll let you know when I'm safe,” says Dorian quietly.

And Bull leaves, just as Dorian wanted.

— 

In the end, it is the crystal itself that leads the Venatori to Dorian. 

Most magisters are uninterested in Dorian’s friendship with Ellana Lavellan. She has disbanded her own Inquisition after all. Now, she is just another uppity elf who thinks she has a voice worth listening to.

She has strong ties to Briala, however, and Briala  _ is  _ Orlais, even if Orlais doesn’t admit it. An adversary of the Orlesian throne had given a Venatori-supporting magister bucket of money to spy on Lavellan through Dorian. The spellwork to eavesdrop had proved impossible, but the magister discovered something much more interesting.

Dorian Pavus has a second crystal.

The magister forms a plan.

—

Fenris does an admirable job of hiding Dorian. Dorian activates the crystal to let Bull know he is safe.

It takes the Venatori less than six hours to find him.

It takes the Iron Bull two weeks to find the Venatori.

The magister’s death is slow.

—

Dorian spends a few months recovering in a nearby village. The Chargers guard him in turns, but it is only a precaution. The Iron Bull had made the dangers of harming Magister Pavus known when he cut a path to his lover with fire and corpses and the joyful tears of the freshly freed. Dorian would be safe.

For now.

Dorian needs a team of trained healers and weeks in the finest Minrathous hospital, but he does not have the luxury. He has Stitches’s expertise and Dalish’s elvhen magic, a wild thing she follows more than she wields. He is alive, but his face is marred with unattractive scars, and he will never be able to unfurl the fingers of his right hand. It is something. It is more than Dorian thought he would ever have.

Dorian spends the first few days waking in fits and starts, never quite grasping consciousness. Bull is always there. He holds Dorian’s hand through the nightmares and strokes his skin until Dorian falls asleep again. When Dorian recovers his senses, they laugh, touch, kiss, and carry on like nothing had ever happened between them. 

Then comes the day where Dorian makes it to the tavern on his own, surprising everyone there. He has a few drinks, maintains his energy, and walks back to the room he’d been renting without growing winded. 

It is clear Dorian is ready to travel. 

Dorian knows what his plans are. He does not want to discuss them, but he knows he will have to.

—

It is the night after the tavern. Dorian sits on the bed he’d spent so many weeks not leaving, running the knuckles of his mangled hand across it. The original bedding had been scratchy and thin and Dorian did nothing but complain about it. Krem had fashioned him a new blanket of a comfortable material that is also a plaidweave of hideous green and blinding pink. Dorian smiles down fondly. He will miss it.

He senses Bull before he sees him.

“Knew you liked it.”

“I’m weak to sentiment,” says Dorian. With anyone else, he would have tacked on a gentle barb. With Bull, he allows it to be fact.

Bull sits next to him. The bed sinks with his weight, pulling Dorian closer to him. Dorian presses himself to Bull’s side, and Bull reaches an arm around him, a response that comes as easily as breathing.

“You’re ready to leave here,” he says.

“I suppose,” breathes Dorian.

They stay like that for a moment, nestled into each other like puzzle pieces.

“It’s smelled like rain all day, yet not a drop,” says Dorian idly. “What has that done to your knee?”

“Nothing good,” grunts Bull, always loathe to admit he has needs.

Dorian shifts so that his good hand can reach Bull’s bad leg. He reaches out to the Fade and requests aid from healing spirits. They answer easily, as they always did when Dorian asks on behalf of Bull. He struggles to get their attention otherwise, for spirits are fickle things, and like or dislike people on a strange whims. Dorian supposes they liked Bull more than they hated him. He’d said as much to Cole once. Cole had smiled and said it was because his need was pure.

He massages Bull's knee with his magic-warmed finger. The healing spirits whisper to him that it's harder to soothe than before, that they can only do so much, that the problems are growing. 

Dorian wants to be there as Bull continues to age. He wants to aid him with everything he has to give, both magical and monetary. He wants to love Bull’s body when Bull finds it difficult to do himself. 

He wants to stay with Bull.

Bull sighs with relief, a vulnerable sound he rarely makes. Dorian thanks the spirits and leans back into him, his head on Bull’s bare chest, brown skin on silver.

“For all I complain about the south, Tevinter  _ can _ be too hot at times.”

“Just ‘a bit?’ Pretty sure last summer you described it as ‘sweaty and humid like we’re all inside the Maker’s arsehole.’”

“Yes, well. I was very accurate.”

“Never said I disagreed.”

Dorian shifts, placing his mangled hand on Bull’s missing fingers. Bull responds immediately, wrapping his injured hand around Dorian’s fist.

“Denerim is temperate enough, and between Ferelden’s dear Hero declaring the Denerim Circle independent and the work of one Divine Victoria—however slightly murderous said work may be—the city is an almost pleasant place to be a mage. Surely open-minded enough to accept a friendly  _ tal-vashoth _ .”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve thought about it. The Waking Sea  _ is _ quite lovely, provided it stays very, very far away from me.”

“Thinking about a place with a view?”

“Of course. There’s hope for the south yet,” says Dorian. He pauses. “Nothing to do about the food."

Bull chuckles. “Yeah.”

“We would keep our pantry well stocked with spices that have actual flavor, but it’d be of little use. We’re both absolutely tragic in the kitchen.”

“Hey, I can cook!” 

“Oh yes, if one were craving soggy meat drowning in sauces so sweet that it may as well be an Orlesian dessert.”

“Come on, I don’t use  _ that _ much sugar. Still better than you.”

Dorian smiles. “No matter. We’ll hire a cook. Between your work with the Chargers and my sale of the magical bits and bobbles just becoming  _ en vogue  _ in the city, we’ll manage it.”

“Who says we’re living in a place that’ll need servants?”

“I do, naturally. Would I live anywhere else?”

Bull lets go of Dorian’s hand. He reaches up and threads his remaining fingers through his hair.

“Manors creep me out. Too many rooms with no one in ‘em.”

Dorian waves dismissively. “It’d be nothing all that complicated. We’ll only need three rooms—our room, of course, a room for guests, and a room to store our things.”

“A closet. You want a whole extra room just to be a closet.”

“And?”

“Alright. Anything else?”

“We'll need a dining room for the good dinnerware and then a separate dinette where we use the things you can break without taking decades from my life.”

“Two rooms just for eating stuff?”

“I don’t mind if they’re small rooms,” says Dorian. “This is a cozy little home, after all. Though we will need a large kitchen for the comfort of our staff. Oh, and we do so enjoy our baths, so a room for that—with plumbing, thank you very much, I’m sure we can manage something. Since we’ve already hired cooks, we might as well hire a full staff, so we ought to consider a secondary wing.”

“Cozy, huh?”

Dorian smiles. “There’d be a courtyard between the two wings, naturally, filled with dummies and an on-site armory and all sorts of things a weapon trainer would need.”

“So I’m teaching now.”

“Well, you can’t always be out with the Chargers, and we’ll need the money to pay for my manor.”

“Do I get any say in this?”

“Very little.”

Bull breaks the back and forth with a smile and a shake of his head. They turn to face each other. Dorian drapes an arm over Bull’s shoulder. His eyes shine with tears, just for a moment. Dorian hides his head in Bull’s shoulder to hide them.

His tone is still light and warm. “Cremissius and Lavellan would have open invitations, of course, and I’m sure they’d come for weeks and weeks.”

He looks up and kisses Bull, then slides his arms forward and runs his hands down Bull’s body, committing him to his memory with every sense—sight, scent, sound, taste, touch. 

“Sera has already taken great advantage of my hospitality in Qarinus, often without my knowledge,” he continues cheerfully. “I’m sure we’d find her in the wine cellar on random days. Cullen may even stop by. I’ve invited him to Tevinter again and again, but I don’t think he knows how to leave Ferelden. Perhaps a Lucerni ally or two may visit.”

“Just allies?” says Bull. He is running his hand through Dorian’s hair, his eye focused intently on Dorian’s face.

“Well. Maevaris is a friend, or something like it,” he mutters. 

Dorian kisses Bull again. He pulls away, but not far, keeping their foreheads pressed together.

“There’d be a fireplace,” he says in a low voice. “And we’d light it on the cold days and read to each other while wrapped in bear fur. A slower life would do us good, you know. Your leg is getting worse, and I—I’ll have my own things to deal with from now on.” The fingers of his mangled hand twitch as he tries to move them.

“Maybe,” says Bull. He doesn’t say anything else.

“And there is—there is always a child somewhere that needs a loving home. Perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” says Bull, his voice raw.

Dorian pulls away.

“But too many slaves speak Common with a Ferelden accent, and I cannot trust that even my allies do not make money off capturing them,” he says. His whole body is shaking. “Tevinter’s very veins are corrupt, no matter how often we look at her still pure heart.”

Dorian brings his hand to the scars on his face, concentrated on the left side, knife wounds crisscrossing over sporadic burns.

“I know it’s futile,” he whispers hoarsely. “I know it’s dangerous. But I couldn’t live with myself if I sat on the side and watched it happen, knowing I have some voice, however small.”

And Bull says, “I know.”

And Bull kisses him one last time.

And Bull says, “That’s why I love you.”

He reaches into his pocket. He takes out the sending crystal. He sets it on the bedside table.

Dorian leaves the next morning.

They do not see each other again for a decade.

  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Bull remembers his past life.

This is what Bull remembers:

At first, he sees only Seheron, different from what he knows from his second life. There is no city that crawls across the sand, the sky polluted by lamplights and visible from the base. His first Seheron is all dunes and cacti and dry heat. There are fewer civilians, but more monsters. Both Seherons reek of blood, but the first Bull washes it off his own blades, heart pumping with the thrill of it. He laughs over particularly satisfying blows, and wears the scent of battle like a perfume. 

The second Bull resents this new lifetime of death dropped on top of what he’s already lived. He runs from the sight of himself with a dripping greatsword, celebrating taking lives in a world where even civilians reward him for it.

He finds the first Vasaad, finds his laughter and the way it clenches the first Bull’s heart, the way it means that at least one thing is worth living for. 

The second Bull has his own Vasaad as well. Both had ended the same.

He searches for The Iron Bull. In his second life, that name followed him through the magic that brought him back, appearing from time to time through odd little coincidences. In his first life, it is a name he chose.

He approaches it logically at first— _ bas _ are hardly familiar with qunari, nevermind qunari words. They will be more inclined to relax around him if he names himself in Baslat.

He also knows he gave Hissrad to the priests. They had taken him, so he was no longer Hissrad. He had assumed he would become Maraasbas, nothing-thing, smothered in qamek and put in charge of latrines. He did not become Marassbas, so he had to become something else.

The Iron Bull is a funny phrase that appears to him on a whim, and that’s when he decides The Iron Bull will be funny. He is proud of the role he is making. His heart flutters the first time he introduces himself. It’s wonderful and uncomfortable all at once.

He stumbles through the south and does his best to adapt to the culture like the  _ ben-hassrath  _ he is. There is too much freedom, too much choice. He thinks he is above it.

He drinks to excess with Fisher’s Bleeders, then does it again, and tells himself it’s because liquor is necessary in most  _ bas _ social engagements. He learns his limits, but often forgets them, or remembers them and doesn’t care. 

He has never known food as anything other than sustenance, but in Orlais, food is joy, and Bull begins to look forward to meals in a way that initially feels silly but soon becomes comfort.

He find  _ bas _ romance strange, but he understands a little the first night he fucks someone he chose to fuck, and who had chosen him in return.

He is not above it.

The Iron Bull quickly becomes a role he likes to play a little too much.

— 

Bull seeks memories of the Chargers, and his heart swells with his love for them. 

In his second life, he has only met Krem, Stitches, and Hissera (though Hissera only in flashes, like he had met her in his first life.) He knows why. Only those whose hands shaped his soul were given second lives in order to mold Bull into the person he had been one thousand years ago. This is the way of the spell. Still, he thinks of them all, even the ones who had not been pillars of his life, but who he holds close to him all the same.

When Bull had left his second Qun, he worked with professionals trained to heal a broken mind, and was given a dog to hold together the parts of him that could not be mended on their own. When Bull had left his first Qun, he only had the Chargers.

For days after the Storm Coast he is in a place that went far beyond numbness. It is a state of nothingness, of unbeing. He has no name, no identity, no life beyond his body. He had once been a vessel for the Qun. Now he had no purpose.

The first night, the core circle of the Chargers sits with him in shifts. They speak to him in hushed tones, and think he is in pain. He is not in pain, because pain is something, and he has less than even that.

No qunari would mourn a  _ tal-vashoth _ , but the Chargers were  _ bas, _ and do not understand. He knows, distantly, that they feel hurt and scared. 

It is Krem’s face that makes him decide to act as The Iron Bull to comfort them.

They drink the night they return from the Storm Cost in celebration. Bull pretends at joy. It does not bring him joy, but it reminds him he had once felt it.

He wakes up the next day to train with the Chargers, because they will be upset if he is not there.

Dorian comes to his room and Bull gives him pleasure, and when Dorian returns the favor, he feels present.

It continues like this, day after day, piece by piece.

He refines the shape of The Iron Bull and fits himself inside. In time, he doesn’t think about the lie. Most days, he even thinks it's the truth.

—

When Bull and Dorian find themselves unable to change for the other, a part of The Iron Bull collapses. He is ready for it, as is the way of a slow inevitability, but he still misses Dorian deeply. He builds new structures before the rest of him can crumble, throwing himself into mercenary work, aiding the former members of the Inquisition when he can. He never strays too far from Krem. In time, Dorian is no longer a mourning but a memory, one precious and bittersweet.

Bull never quite loses his lust for battle, but his body begins to feel the weight of combat in a way he can no longer ignore. He decides to slow down. A  _ ben-hassrath  _ knows they will not die of old age, and at first, he does not know what to do with himself. But Bull is no longer  _ ben-hassrath _ , and he has been given the gift of choice. He wakes up every morning in awe.

— 

He does not fall in  _ bas _ -love again, not like he did with Dorian. There is love all the same. 

A woman joins the Chargers, just as Bull is beginning to slow down and hand the reins to Krem. Her name is Hissera.

She had been a member of the Inquisition. The Qun had sent her to Lavellen as a peace offering when they were speaking of alliances, a  _ saarebas _ no longer chained, a piece of trust in the Chantry organization led by an elvhen mage that rebukes the Circles. Bull had immediately understood she was no gift. The Qun had sent a bomb.

All  _ saarebas  _ have their lips sewn shut for the safety of themselves and everyone around them. That is standard. Hissera’s tongue had been cut. That is not standard. The tongue is only taken when the _ saarebas _ is deemed too dangerous to even have the option of words. The Qun expects her to become possessed.

At first, Bull thinks the Qun had been correct. She speaks in limited Qunlat gesture language, and understands no Baslat. Her misery is palpable. 

Bull works with her when Lavellan asks. He receives instructions from the  _ ben-hassrath _ to only pretend to help her. He helps her anyway.

Eventually, Laveallan starts sending her out in the field, where she can speak the language of battle and feel useful and needed. She never gives in to the demons. She begins to smile.

When Bull sees her after The Storm Coast, he avoids her. She is proof that the Qun could be untenably cruel, and he does not want to think of the Qun’s darkness, not when everyone is congratulating him as if leaving the Qun was an easy choice. It is a complex time for him.

Years later, their paths cross at a party in Val Royeaux, working as guards for separate nobles, Ellana Lavellan’s two oxen shown off for status. They talk. They bond. They fuck.

Eventually, Bull buys a home in the outskirts of Orlais. He retires there. He gardens and reads and sometimes Hissera warms his bed. It is a simple life, near to the one Dorian had once proposed. Bull makes the best of it, and tries to ignore the bloodlust that roars in his veins.

—

The day Dorian returns to him is clear and bright, the sky a crisp blue and filled with fluffy clouds. It is a good day to change his life.

There is no announcement, no warning. Bull is in his yard when it happens, tending to the chickens he had intended to raise for food, but instead had named and loved and eaten only their eggs. He hears a carriage, and thinks little of it. The town is off a main road, after all, and people get lost. He will offer aid and food if needed.

Then he realizes he only hears the carriage wheels turning. It is moving without horses. It is then Bull knows exactly who has come. 

Bull takes his cane off its resting place on the wall, and waits for Dorian Pavus to reveal himself.

His heart screams as embers of past emotions spark into unwanted flame. Dorian is gorgeous. There are deep lines in his face that are artful and distinguished in spite of the ugly scars that still cross over his skin. His hair is a dark silver and he wears it long and loose. He is more regal, no longer cocky in his confidence, but quietly proud. Bull shifts his weight, almost insecure about his ungraceful aging, but the moment doesn’t last long. He was never vain enough to mourn physical changes.

Dorian is still not quite as skilled with dissembling as Bull, and his nerves show as he meets Bull’s eye. He collects himself in a blink, and Bull waits for his opening line.

“How odd to have found you here! I was simply passing through,” he says, sweeping out an arm, puckish and showy.

“Yeah,” says Bull. He keeps his face blank. He doesn’t appreciate the sudden intrusion without even a letter to warn him. It has set off his nerves.

Dorian’s coy grin falters. “I thought you might be wary. I promise I bring no dire news, nor have I brought any danger to your door. Can’t I visit an old friend without any other motive?”

Bull says nothing. Dorian’s smile fades completely. He nods at Bull like he used to when they were lovers and he knew Bull was not finding him charming. “Are you still fond of chocolates?” he asks without affectation.

Bull breathes in and out and forces himself to soften. He clearly has come for a reason, but Dorian would not lie about his visit being safe. “Always,” he says.

“Fantastic!” says Dorian with forced cheer. He hesitates for a moment. Then, he takes a deep breath, and turns back to his carriage. He pushes open the door and holds out a hand.

“You can come out now,” he says, patient and fond. “Don’t forget the sweets.”

Nothing happens.

Then, slowly, slowly, a small hand appears. Dorian takes it in his. Their skin tones match.

“It’s alright,” he says in a voice so tender that Bull aches to hear it.

The hand is followed by a tiny foot, then a tiny leg, and then Bull sees the child in full. She has thick black hair that curls around her face and large brown eyes that stare at Bull with open awe. She is dressed expensively for a child, adorned in a dark blue dress with peacock feathers on the sleeves. She clutches a parcel at her side, one presumably filled with chocolates.

“Go on, darling,” Dorian says to her.

She looks up at Dorian with a pleading expression. Dorian gives her a slight push. “Come now,” he says, gently chiding.

She takes hesitating steps toward Bull, her eyes focused on the ground. Bull kneels down slowly to meet her, mindful of his leg. She hands the parcel to him without looking directly at him. Bull takes it from her carefully.

“She’s not normally so shy,” says Dorian. “She’s tired from the road, I suppose.”

“I’m a big guy. Some kids take a while to warm up to me,” says Bull, looking up at Dorian.

“Oh, she’s plenty used to qunari. We’ve hired many as servants.”

Bull turns back to her, knowing children never appreciated when adults talked over them. “Thanks for the chocolate,” he says. He can’t help but smile at her. “What’s your name?”

“Lady Felicia Pavus,” she mutters.

“My daughter,” says Dorian.

And then Bull knows why Dorian has come.

— 

Felicia falls asleep as soon as she and Dorian sit. She nestles close to him, and Dorian gazes down at her with an unmasked vulnerability. Bull knows that openness is not Dorian letting his guard down around Bull. When there is unconditional love between a parent and a child, it is palpable, and there is no use in denying it.

She sucks at her thumb, and Dorian gently pulls it out. She whines and places her thumb back in her mouth. Dorian smiles, rueful but affectionate.

“The nanny and I have made a pact to discourage that habit. The nanny is doing an admirable job. I am not.”

Bull laughs. “Eh, it’s cute,” he says. “How old is she?”

“Nearly five,” he says.

“Oh. Yeah. She should probably stop that.”

Dorian pulls her thumb out again. This time, it takes.

Bull decides he will not ask why Dorian has come, even if he can tell Dorian would like him to begin the conversation. Bull’s silence makes Dorian anxious. The energy between them is awkward and off-putting. 

Dorian turns his gaze to Bull, snapping into action like a switch was flipped. “Bull—” he starts, but the opening of the door interrupts him.

Hissera waltzes into the sitting room, holding packages of food from the nearest town’s market. She takes one look at Dorian, sets down her bags, and begins to sign rapidly.  _ “How the hell did this asshole get here?” _ she asks.

“ _ Be nice, _ ” signs Bull, sparing Dorian any context to their conversation. Hissera’s answer is to glare at Dorian, who looks between the two with wide eyes.

Bull sighs. “You remember Hissera?” he asks.

“A bit,” Dorian says.

Bull knows his memories of her are sharper than Dorian wants to admit. Dorian had been fascinated by the freed  _ saarebas _ , and was the first to offer her proper tutelage. They had one lesson together before Hissera switched to Solas. Dorian had represented too much, and was far too transparent when he saw someone as a subject of study rather than a person. It had hurt Dorian. 

It had hurt Hissera too.

“I’d stand up and shake your hand, but I’m otherwise occupied,” says Dorian, indicating Felicia with a pleasant smile. Hissera glares at him with so much open contempt that Dorian’s smile fades. She turns to Bull.

“ _ Where’d he get a kid? _ ” signs Hissera. “ _ And when is he taking that kid and leaving? _ ”

“Dunno,” says Bull out loud this time. He stands up to help Hissera with her parcels from the market. “But we were probably going to make too much food anyway, might as well have them eat with us.” Bull tilted his head toward Dorian, indicating his next words were for him. “Krem and his family are coming over tonight.” 

“Family?”

“Yeah. He got married—Feathers, you never met her. They keep taking in kids. They got four now.”

“Oh. That’s kind of them.”

Bull’s gaze flickered toward Felicia. The physical resemblance between her and her father was undeniable. Felicia was of Dorian’s blood.

Bull chats with Dorian while working in the kitchen with Hissera. They catch up with one another about their lives and their friends. Dorian sneaks glances at Hissera when she’s not looking, and Hissera sends him openly hostile glares. It’s not jealousy. It’s protection.

Felicia wakes as soon as Krem and his wife arrive, their four children in their wake. It turns out Felicia really was just travel-weary when she met Bull. She quickly makes friends with the other kids, leading them all in some Tevinter game the other children did not know. Bull suspects this was a game of her own creation, with rules that suits her. It is clear she is Dorian’s child.

Krem is cautiously happy to see Dorian, but he is still suspicious. He makes eye contact with Bull, and indicates the door with subtle eye movement. Bull gives him a barely perceptible head shake. They do not need to strategize the moment. Bull is in no rush to get Dorian to leave.

Dinner is a loud affair, as it always is with Krem’s family. Krem and his boisterous dwarven wife had raised their children primarily along with the Chargers, and it had given them a love for shouting and stories. Krem, Bull, and Hissera catch Dorian up on all the best Chargers jobs he has missed. 

Dorian laughs warmly, and listens more than he speaks, comfortably enjoying company without putting himself in the center of it. Krem opens a bottle of wine, but Dorian waves it away with an excuse of too much travel, and asks for tea. He is a calmer man. Bull fights against the rising warmth in his heart.

Evening falls, and Bull goes outside to build a fire. Hissera and Krem politely find a place to chat away from Bull and Dorian, comfortably out of earshot. The children start a contest to see who can catch the most fireflies.

Bull watches her closely. Felicia moves with a certain fluidity that is atypical of human children her age. Her eyes shine brightly, and the fireflies come to her easily. Humans and elves alike think that elf-blooded humans are undetectable, but they are not. They are creatures all of their own.

“She’s Lavellan’s,” he says. There is no need to phrase it as a question.

“It is the greatest thing I have asked of anyone,” says Dorian softly. “I will never be able to repay her.”

“Is she in Felicia’s life?”

“A bit. Felicia knows her, and knows what she’s done for Thedas. Lavellan feels no particular call toward motherhood, but is inclined to visit now and then. She brings her far too many gifts and sneaks her sweets before dinner.”

Bull grins. “Sounds like Lavellan.” He sips his tea, hesitates, then says, “You know I gotta ask.”

Dorian laughs. “Most do. Her conception was done the way generations of  _ alti  _ in political marriages have done it—we got utterly shitfaced and covered ourselves in enough fertility charms to repopulate the Exalted Plains. No one wants a repeat performance, you see. All in all, a lovely evening.”

Dorian gathers himself for what he is going to say next. Bull waits patiently. He knows what’s coming.

“There was an attempt on her life,” he says quietly. “By a member of my personal council. I met him a year after she was born, and he seemed—he seemed aligned with my values. I had him vetted. I spoke to half the Magisterium about him. And yet—and yet.” He covers his fisted hand with his good one. Bull thinks it’s a new habit, one that implies nerves.

“Glad she’s okay,” says Bull.

“As am I,” says Dorian ruefully. “They nearly succeeded. She won’t sleep in a room without me now, and I’m not doing a thing to dissuade her.”

They both look at Felicia at the same time. She and the other children have grown bored of fireflies, and are now playing with a skipping rope. Felicia does not appear to be familiar. Krem’s oldest is teaching her when to jump in without getting tangled.

“I came, in part, to apologize,” says Dorian quietly. “You called me _ kadan _ . I understand much more what it means to place your heart in another, and for that heart to be a target.”

Ten years ago, Bull would have felt bitter that it took a child for Dorian to realize that, but he is older now. The wounds have healed. He sees his own part in it much more clearly.

“You knew it wouldn’t work. I pushed it anyway. Made it messier than it had to be.”

“I’m glad you did,” says Dorian. “If you hadn’t, I’d likely be rotting bones in a Venatori hideout by now.”

Bull doesn’t think before he does it, because they have always had permission with each other. He puts his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. It’s a small gesture, but it fills him with an unexpected pressure, clenching his heart and lungs. It has been so long since he had touched Dorian. They pull memories to him that he keeps at a distance. Next to him, Dorian goes stiff.

Bull takes his hand away.

“Sorry,” he says. 

Dorian relaxes and smiles. “Oh, it happens. I’m as utterly irresistible as I ever was.”

“You think?”

“I know! And I’m still quite talented, handsome, and all around astonishing. Hasn’t my hair silvered magnificently? Like moonlight.”

Bull grins. “There you are,” he says.

Dorian laughs softly into his tea. “There I am,” he muses.

The fire sputters in front of them. Bull thinks he should feed it more kindling, but he knows the conversation isn’t done.

Dorian shifts in his chair and looks at Hissera. “Another mage, is it?” he asks. He sounds buoyant. Bull wonders how close that is to bitter.

“Got her to learn the electricity thing,” says Bull with a wink.

Dorian laughs. “You were always a fan,” he says. 

Silence.

“She comes and goes. Wouldn’t really call us together,” says Bull, surprising himself. He hadn’t intended to share this information.

“Oh?” asks Dorian.

“I mean, we fuck, sure, just look at her,” says Bull.

“I recognize the appeal on an intellectual level.”

“Right? I mean, that rack!”

“Quite the set of lumps,” says Dorian.

“Real good lumps. She squeals when you tweak ‘em.”

Dorian grins at him like he used to, a mix of exasperation and affection. “There you are,” he says.

“There I am,” says Bull.

He tries not to yearn.

Dorian shivers, then focuses on his tea. Bull knows he hasn’t been this far south in years. He’s sure the complaining will begin soon.

“She’ll stay with Dalish for a while, or Stitches. Depends on her mood. Sometimes you wake up, and Hissera’s there. Sometimes you wake up, and Hissera’s gone.”

Dorian swallows. “Who does she spend the most time with?” he asks.

“Me,” says Bull without fanfare. “Guess it’s kind of like Leliana’s ravens. They leave the rook, but they always come back.”

Dorian nods, like Bull had said something he’d expected to hear. “You’ve never been one for traditional relationships.”

_I was, once,_ thinks Bull, but he does not express this. “You got anyone?”

Dorian gives a bitter laugh. “Alas. I spent so many years fighting to love men freely, and then when it was all said and done, I married my work. He’s not even particularly kind.” Dorian does not try to hide his regret.

“Hey, look at it this way. Work sucks, and you always liked being the prettier one,” says Bull. It gets Dorian to smile.

Bull watches the kids. Felicia has learned the patterns of the skipping rope, and there are now two children inside, shouting and laughing and keeping rhythm.

“Cut to the chase, Pavus,” says Bull. He nearly says  _ ‘kadan. _ ’ 

Dorian takes a deep breath. “I had initially come to make a request,” he says. “A far-fetched one I already had little hope of you granting. Now I think it’s entirely inappropriate to even ask.” 

“Why?” asks Bull.

“I wasn’t told you had a partner,” says Dorian. His tone is carefully neutral. “I ought to have assumed.”

“Not exactly a partner. Ask anyway,” says Bull.

Felicia trips over the rope, and gets tickled by Krem’s second eldest in punishment. Her laughter is bright and innocent and far too similar to Dorian’s.

“She needs a bodyguard,” says Dorian quietly. “And even after all these years, I trust no one in the world so much as I trust you.”

Bull breathes out slowly. He thought he had known his answer.

“I’m not what I used to be,” he says.

“Then you are still the strongest man I know.”

He looks at Hissera, watches her sign animatedly at Krem and Feathers. She is awe-striking, all angles and confidence and strength. She would have been a  _ tamassrin  _ in another life, just as Bull thinks he may have been if not for his size and power. She understands him and the complexities of being _ tal-vashoth  _ more than anyone ever will or could.

And then there is Dorian.

“I’ll need a week,” says Bull.

— 

It is three months before they share their second first kiss.

It is eleven months before they share a bed.

For six years, Dorian Pavus and The Iron Bull have the life which they had once thought unattainable. They relearn every corner of each other, rediscovering every habit and celebrating the new ones, like Dorian’s tea instead of wine, or Bull’s gardening instead of battles.

There are some attempts against Dorian, more against Felicia, but they meet them head on. The Lucerni had yet to cure the sicknesses in Tevinter entirely, but they changed the culture in Tevinter just enough for some added tolerance. Bull is mocked and degraded, but no one views him as game to hunt for sport, at least no more than in Orlais. 

Felicia grows between them both, becoming a girl who loves shopping for dresses and the color pink and drinks the blood of dragons and raises the dead.

They are older, calmer, slower. They savor one another. 

They are deliriously happy.

And then the Dread Wolf rises.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I know I sure did say the next few chapters were coming quickly, but a few things came up! I'm sorry! I promise the finale will ACTUALLY come out quickly. I am, in fact, posting this to help me focus on finishing the last chapter. I don't want to leave everyone hanging!
> 
> This chapter adds new content warnings for sacrifice, addiction relapse, and blood magic.

Minrathous had been built with magic.

Magic is the stitching that holds the city together, the mortar that sticks brick to brick, the force that raised the stones. The use of magic as architecture terrifies the rest of Thedas, but Minrathous knows the spellwork is impenetrable, for if it were not, petty  _ alti  _ would have torn the city apart long ago. The spells are as solid as cement, as trustworthy as geometry. Minrathous would stand for centuries.

But Fen’harel knows the heart of all spells, and with one lazy wave of his hand, he erases every glyph. He does it with sorrow in his eyes, as if it is an unavoidable thing, as if it isn’t something he has decided.

The city rains upon her citizens without warning. Merchants hawking their wares are buried in rubble. Lovers enjoying a walk are shattered with their hands still clasped. Bartenders pouring ale bleed into the shards of their mugs. Elves and humans and dwarves and qunari alike all turn to muck, ground into the dirt like insects carelessly squished under a half-focused thumb.

The mass deaths of  _ laetans  _ and  _ alti  _ free hundreds of bound spirit-slaves. They shift quickly into demons, and chew on those that survived the fall. They grow stronger with every scream.

To say Minrathous is simply in ruins is to sanitize hell itself.

—

When Fen’Harel discovers Felicia Pavus, he fixates on her, an extension of his obsession with Lavellan. After all, though she is not Lavellan’s child, she is Lavellan’s progeny, and Fen’Harel feels a kinship he has not earned. When he warns Lavellan of his plan to weaken Tevinter and “allow Felicia to become the proud elvhen she is,” Lavellan risks everything to race Fen’Harel to Minrathous. She does this by traveling through the Fade she had once walked in, pulling harshly at the connection she had formed. It nearly kills her, but she is saved by the first Ascendant, a being who had selflessly sacrificed their physical body in the Fade and thus was gifted unimaginable power by the Fade itself. 

The Ascendant prefers the name Hawke.

— 

Dorian, Bull, Felicia, and Lavellan, their family unconventional but strong, find refuge in an old dwarven tower. They watch the Fall of Minrathous from the windows, wordless in their horror. They stand skin to skin, breathing in the darkness of irreversible history.

—-

Felicia is sleeping on a bench, her head in Lavellan’s lap. She is still young, yet as powerful as any of them, taught to drink the blood of dragons and dance with the dead. She can protect herself. Still, she is sixteen and terrified. They give her whiskey, and let her rest. 

Dorian takes the bottle once she is asleep and pulls deeply. It is the first time Bull has seen him drink since Bull came to Tevinter. He gently takes the bottle from him, and Dorian takes it back with need in his eyes. Bull does not push. This is a day for vices.

Hawke casually walks through the door to their hideout, even if they had spent hours warding it. The only surprise is that she used the door at all.

“I tried to stop it,” she says softly. “He was too fast.”

“It’s alright,” says Lavellan.

Hawke is all the hope they had to fight against the Dread Wolf, and she is not enough.

—

Dorian stands at the tower’s window, looking at the ruins of Minrathous while Lavellan, Bull, and Hawke talk behind him. Felicia is still peacefully asleep next to Lavellan. That is a mercy.

He is firmly drunk now, unbalanced, his face covered in a thin layer of sweat. Part of him is ashamed, part of him is amused. It had taken so little whiskey to get him here. He used to take great gulps of wine, racing through his first two glasses because the third was when the effects finally began. Now, only a few desperate swallows had him wrapped in a bitterly familiar gauze.

There is a thought in his head. 

He does not like it.

“Everyday, more elves kneel to him, and with every body he drains he grows stronger. He’s weeks away from gathering enough power to tear down the Veil.”

“Fucking blood magic,” says Bull. There is a performance about him, like he is reading lines from a play and taking direction from someone who didn’t understand the script. Dorian knew when Bull was outside himself. He is not the only one who coped with distance. Dorian brought the bottle to his lips again.

“Blood magic was once sacred to the elvhen,” says Lavellan. “It is about the connection between the body, the self, and the nature that surrounds us. It was never used for evil until the humans came. Solas sees this as reclaiming something that was lost.”

“Oh yeah! Should have known that. Actually, I did know that, but I know so many things it’s kinda hard to sort through. You have 139,967 individual hairs on your head, by the way,” says Hawke.

“...Oh,” says Lavellan.

Dorian drinks again. The world is blurring together, stepping just to the left of itself. It makes it easier to nurse the idea that is forming within him. It might work.

The terrible thing he is thinking might work.

Dorian weaves his way toward Lavellan and puts an unsteady hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him, worried. He pulls at her. She understands immediately, and slips away from Felicia, allowing Dorian to replace her. Felicia shifts and looks at him blearily.

“Are we—”

Dorian strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. “Hush, my star. Sleep.”

She complies easily. Bull watches them with a blank face. They have discussed the use of sleeping spells on children before, both agreeing it is a lazy and ugly path. Dorian ignores him, and leans his head against the wall. He listens to the conversation.

Hawke flops down on an armchair, her legs sticking out, her head tilted backwards. The sight quickly turns grotesque. Hawke has trouble keeping her human form solid, and she bends too far, her back snapping in half, her knees bending backwards. Bull grunts.

“You’re absolutely sure you can’t take care of this,” he asks. He hasn’t trusted Hawke since she reappeared with Fade smoke pouring from her fingernails and out of her eyes. Dorian knows he still dreams of the Fade, that it haunts him even after the cushion of time.

“Unless you can get a bunch of people to jump off a cliff for me, no can do,” said Hawke. “And even then, probably all I can do is stall him. That’s whole thing, right? Fen’harel tricks.” She stretches her arms over her head and they never stop stretching, growing long and boneless, disappearing into the floor. “We’re playing a game and only he knows the rules.”

“Felicia had the roundest cheeks as a baby,” says Dorian. 

Everyone goes silent.

“I always wondered who that came from,” he continues. His speech slurs and his eyes are wet. “When she was in a particularly good mood, giggling and squirming about, you know, all the proper toddler things, I would pinch them.” 

He laughs at a joke no one told. 

“Let’s rest,  _ kadan _ ,” says Bull. He puts a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian doesn’t move.

“I would wonder what she would look like when she grew up and began to fill out a bit. Now, her face reminds me a bit of Lavellan’s. Do you see it?”

Dorian places a hand on top of Bull’s, keeping the one with moving fingers woven through Felicia’s hair. Bull watches him cautiously. Bull knows him. Bull knows something is wrong.

“Yeah,” says Bull. “I see it.”

“Watching her grow has been the most beautiful thing,” whispers Dorian. He goes still. “I would do anything to ensure she continues to do so.”

He swallows back tears, because he must never let them fall. If he does, they will never stop, and they will drown him.

“Maker forgive me, but—”

He takes in Felicia, all of her, her face and her scent and the sound of her breathing.

“There could be a way.”

—

Blood that is spilled from one’s own hand is powerful. There is more of it than there is mana, and what mana there is can be used to keep the body knitting itself back together. It’s an offering to the spirits, and the spirits give their thanks.

Blood that a hand spills in cruelty is a deadly power. The demons grow greedy with it, and give freely of themselves in the hopes that they may devour more.

Blood that is spilled from a willing sacrifice is powered by love. The spirits treat it with gravity and honor, and give all of themselves out of respect.

And then there is another offering, one rarely explored and never discussed. It’s only written in the rarest of texts, tomes so heinous that even the worst of mages have destroyed the knowledge. Dorian had come across one by mistake, tucked away in a dusty desert tomb. He didn’t show Lavellan, and he destroyed it quickly—but not before his damnable curiosity got the best of him.

Spirits are drawn to love, and demons are drawn to evil. If one were to stain their hands with the blood of those that make up their very soul, then, well.

Well.

—-

Dorian Pavus knows of death, and he knows of time, and he knows of love.

He will write new rules for Fen’harel’s game.

—

The  _ tempus fulcrumi, _ the amulet Alexius and Dorian had made decades ago, is locked away at the Pavus estate in Qarinus. Dorian had been tasked with destroying it. He had kept it instead, and the guilt of that choice haunts him at times. Now, he realizes there had always been a reason.

—

Dorian explains his plan. Hawke leaves without ceremony, simply blinking out of existence.

No one says anything.

“Not her, of course,” says Dorian, focused on Felicia. “We do this for her.”

Silence.

“I—” starts Lavellan, but Dorian holds up a hand.

“My loved ones are few and far between,” he says. “I’ll need—” He pauses. He breathes. “I’ll need everyone I can get.”

Dorian holds out his hand.

Bull gives him the bottle.

—

Fenris comes first.

Once, Fenris had thought it was sickly hilarious that Dorian and Maevaris Tilani were speaking against a system he felt they participated in. After all, their fine clothes and fine wine are all paid for with riches grown on the graves of slaves. They claim their appearances made them more effective among the magisterium, and remind Fenris constantly that their servants are paid. Fenris thinks true change would be to sell it all and arm the powerless. He sneers at their lofty claims of peaceful change.

When Dorian begins to slip him information on how to take down slavers and Venatori, Fenris takes the information happily, but makes his views on Dorian known. He is not so naive to believe a pampered noble has truly altruistic intentions.

Over time, Fenris finds some small respect for Dorian. Working inside the system is not as bloodless as it seems, and he watches as Dorian’s body begins to bear the weight of it. He notes the various coping mechanisms Dorian has for his frozen hand. He counts the scars on Dorian’s skin.

In the end, the Lucerni do not end slavery, but they enforce punishments for abuse, provide generous tax incentives for estates that used only servants, and pass laws that stop the separation of families. It isn’t enough. Fenris isn’t comforted. But it’s something, and lives are improved.

Fenris confesses this to Dorian after pouring himself cups of fine wine that Dorian politely declines. Dorian helps him to bed that night, and leaves him water and a healing potion.

Fenris acts like it never happened. Dorian respectfully does the same. But Fenris also begins to finally accept Dorian’s constant invitations to tea. After one such afternoon, Fenris discovers a slip of paper in his pocket. It has the names of those that carry out Danarius’s illegal and terrible work. 

Fenris leaves that night, and returns with research documents. He gives them to Dorian, saying he’s learned of the complexities of power, and bitterly admitting good could come from Danarius’s knowledge. Dorian’s eyes flicker with a hunger for knowledge, just for a moment. Then, he asks Fenris if he would like Dorian to summon a fire to destroy the papers, or if Fenris would prefer to do it the old-fashioned way.

Fenris smiles at Dorian.

—

They sit at a dirty tavern on a dock, where Isabela is preparing her ship for departure. She is part of the effort to smuggle Felicia out of Tevinter, a feat she did not do for Felicia herself, or even Dorian, but for Fenris. They had formed a partnership after Hawke’s presumed passing, teaming up to destroy slavers. They share lonely nights and near death experiences alike. They aren’t romantic, but they are bonded for life all the same, their souls tied together so tightly it was hard to see where one began and ended. Fenris would do this for Dorian, so Isabela would do this for Fenris.

Two bottles of wine sit before them. One is empty, the other is nearly so. This time, Dorian drinks as much as Fenris does.

Fenris stares down at the table, and that is how Dorian knows he is about to say something serious. Fenris had spent too long forced to look down. He does not do it unless necessary. 

“Let us be frank. You have very few friends.” 

Dorian laughs wildly. “You dote on me.”

“It is hardly due to your personality. Many others seem to find it charming.”

Dorian laughs all the harder, the wine mixing with the heaviness of his burden. Fenris does not share his mirth.

“It’s that you can’t afford them.”

Dorian stops laughing. He drinks deeply from his glass. He does not have another smart remark. He knows what is coming.

He drinks again.

“For all you have done, you are still an idealistic brat playacting at change that will never truly come.”

Dorian closes his eyes. “And?” he says.

“You have done much to shape my life and give me purpose. We are bonded, however strangely,” says Fenris. He pours the rest of the wine into Dorian’s cup.

“Will you admit we’re friends? Just once?” asks Dorian, weaving where he sits. He picks up the wine and stares at it blankly.

“We are friends,” says Fenris quietly.

Dorian leans back in his chair, a sloppy, bitter grin on his face.

“I’d’ve liked to swashbuckle. I think I would have been good at it, and Maker knows I’d do wonderful things with the fashion. But I’ve chosen a less flashy fight, however much you don’t believe in it.”

Dorian closes his eyes, his words coming out slower.

“It’s been a great comfort that you do it on my behalf, though I do worry. I’d miss you terribly if the sea were to claim you. Feel like I lost a limb, really.” He makes a pained, choking sound. “Well. That’s that, then.”

“That is that.”

—

They ask the Red Jennies to help Isabela and Fenris smuggle Felicia away. He doesn’t expect Sera to come herself, but she does. She is an elf, and prouder of it these days. She ought to have a youthful glow afforded to her by her species. Instead, she looks considerably aged, though in a way that agrees with her. She lives an indelicate life, and it has brought her nothing but joy.

She approaches Dorian with a smile and a hug, and then she steps back, suddenly grim.

“You smell like booze. You’re not supposed to smell like booze.”

“Ah,” says Dorian, who has been drunk every minute that Felicia retires to her heavily guarded room. “A bit of a story, that.”

“Heard it all. Know the plan. I’m in,” she says, as if the issue of blood sacrifice was nothing more than an interesting prank.

Dorian wavers where he stands. “You can’t possibly—”

“It’s me dead or else everyone dead, yeah? Simple.”

“I can’t let you—”

“I puked all over your velvet cloak. The red one you got in Orlais. Kept prattling on about how it brought out your eyes. I ruined it and you still like me.”

She speaks as if she’s decided on which drink to buy, or where she’s going next. Her weight is all on her left foot, hip angled out, a hand on her hip. It’s a pose Dorian knows well. Sera has made up her mind about something, and will not hear any arguments.

Dorian still has to try. “That was twenty years ago.”

“Yeah, but you liked me again two days later. Said you’d done worse. I said show me. We sat on the roof and drank and drank, then the next day you teased me because I talked about Josie’s dresses being so pretty. I said I wanted to dress up in somethin’ all poofy and itchy and Antivan, just once, ‘cause I know I’d hate it, but I wanted to  _ know _ know. And you remembered.” 

She hoists herself up on a ledge, kicking her legs as she speaks.

“And you came to me and Widdles’ wedding with dresses, and I cried, and you got  _ way _ more mad I got snot on your dumb fancy leathers than you were about the cloak. And also you always let me visit when I’m in Qarinus, even when I don’t tell you I’m coming. And also you asked me to take Felly. So it’s love. So it’s me.”

“Sera,” says Dorian, because there is little else to say.

She grins at him, wide and joyful, without even a hint of mourning.

“Whatever. My choice. I did everything I wanted. Saw the sunset in Nevarra. Boring. Saw a horse piss on a cat. Brilliant! Fell in love so hard that I’m still falling, ‘cause true love’s a never ending pit just full of her, her and her and her.” Sera swallowed and blinked, her cheer momentarily weakened. “She doesn’t know.”

Dorian takes out a flask, unscrewing it with shaking hands.

“Well. If things work out the way they ought, you’ll see her again,” he says, his voice so low it’s nearly a whisper.

— 

He and Lavellan watch Felicia sail away from Qarinus, praying to different gods for her safety, but praying with the same depth of love.

Dorian is sober, for now. He would not say his goodbyes to Felicia as his worst self. 

When the ship is no longer visible, Lavellan takes his good hand in the one she has.

“I will see that bastard burn,” she says. Her voice is quiet and cold and  _ hateful _ . 

Dorian shivers.

“Not so much a burning as an imprisonment,” he says. “He’s a bit too clever for something as droll as death.”

“That’s burn enough,” she says. “He took my dignity. In return, I will take everything.”

Dorian breathes a laugh. “I have said it before, but I will say it again. Remind me to never betray you.” He pauses. “Aside from what I must do.”

Lavellan swings their hands together. “Not the same. Really, really not the same.”

A gentle sea wind passes through them, bringing the scent of salt and brine.

“It doesn’t really matter for us, anyway, what with the whole cycle thing.”

“Can’t work out a way to avoid it,” says Dorian. He is growing more and more numb to the inevitability. “There is no way to stop him from nurturing and growing his power. We can only take it away again, and again, and again.” 

Hawke had estimated it would take him about fifteen centuries or so to break free of his prison. Dorian had held Alexius’s amulet in his hand, and declared the cycle would be one millenia. It was poetic, after all, and gave them a generous safety net.

Or so they had thought.

“We’ll go most of those lives ignorant of all this. A mercy, that,” says Dorian.

“Personally, makes me feel better about the whole thing, knowing we’ll trap him over and over,” she says. She does not share Sera’s frank acceptance, but she still has a serenity about her. “I get to spend the rest of eternity telling him he’s a piece of shit.”

“You will die at forty-nine, over and over and over again.”

“But I’ll meet everyone I love, right? You said that’s part of it. That a soul can’t build itself again without the souls that shaped it.”

“Loosely, yes. The power will only extend so far. You likely won’t be seeing, say, one Cullen Rutherford.”

Lavellan laughed. She had often complained to Dorian about how she found certain Inquisition members awfully boring and that she was losing her patience with making awkward small talk. Cullen was often a subject of these rants. “Won’t you kinda—bring him, I guess? You two were close.”

“Our chess matches hardly changed my life, but who knows? I’m combining blood sacrifice with time magic and funneling it through a Fade being who described herself as ‘the Blight, but opposite, and just one of me, with really great tits.’ I’ve no idea how far the magic will reach.”

Lavellan stares out into the sea. “I don’t care how long I live, or how many times. I want to keep him locked away, and every thousand years, I want him to know I was part of it.”

—

He returns to Bull that night, still sober. 

He sits on their bed, the one he’d had custom made to fit both himself and a man of Bull’s size, yet still leave comfortable space between them. He runs a hand up one of the posts, comparing the brown of his skin to the dark mahogany frame, watching the candlelight flicker and cast shadows. How often had they lied here together? How many lazy mornings had they spent luxuriating among the sheets? How many injuries and illnesses had they nursed? How many filthy, indecent acts had been done?

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Bull has changed in the last few years. He cannot walk more than a few yards without the cane. His body complains at every small misuse. On some days, he simply cannot hide his pain. Dorian has brought up the possibility of an invalid’s chair, seeding it now when it isn’t necessary in preparation for when it becomes inevitable. Bull had reacted with silence.

Yet regardless of his failing body, Bull is as vivacious as ever. When Felicia had passed her Enchanter test a few months ago, Bull had cheered so loudly nearly everyone in the arena hushed him at once. Dorian had only laughed. 

Bull places his hands on Dorian’s shoulders, ever steady, his grip firm in a way that said ‘don’t run,  _ kadan _ . Do not shatter. I am here.’ 

Dorian closes his eyes and focuses on Bull’s presence, sinking into the size of him. Before Bull, Dorian had never truly known what it was to be cherished without conditions. Nothing has ever made Dorian feel safer than Bull’s embrace.

Bull kisses the top of his head. “Let’s take a bath,” he says, his voice a low rumble, felt more than heard.

Dorian nods numbly and allows Bull to guide him to the bathing room. The tub, like their bed, had been redesigned to accommodate a qunari. Normally, Dorian summons the water, but when he raises his hand to begin, Bull wraps his fingers around his wrist. He lowers Dorian’s arm. Dorian lets him.

Bull fusses with the knobs, testing the warmth of the water from time to time. He moves around the room, cane in hand, and gathers their bathing luxuries. When everything is to his liking, he takes off Dorian’s clothes, article by article. He goes slowly, like it must be done with reverential precision. He treats it like a ceremony. He treats it like a prayer.

When Dorian is laid bare, wearing nothing but himself, Bull brings him to the water. It isn’t as hot as magically-drawn water, but it’s comfortable, and anointed with scented oil.

Bull positions himself behind Dorian and begins to lather soap into his skin. Dorian closes his eyes and allows Bull to care for him.

He feels like he’s being cleansed and purified.

Bull speaks after minutes, hours, eternities of silence. “Been on borrowed time for a while,” he says.

“You are not,” says Dorian vehemently. They have had this conversation before.

Bull runs his rough and war-torn hands down Dorian’s skin again. Dorian does not normally notice his missing fingers. Today, he does.

“Feels that way. Most guys don’t make it out of Seheron, nevermind keep going for another three decades.” Bull pauses. “Pretty happy with what I got.”

Dorian moves his hands through the water in lazy strokes, shaping a warming glyph. The increasingly tepid water slowly grows hot again, releasing steam into the air. Dorian breathes it in, letting the scents of sandalwood and rose ground him in reality even if all he wants to do is escape. He tastes the sour ghost of wine in his mouth, his mind reminding him of how he could listen to Bull without the pain of it. Dorian pushes away the craving. Not here. Not now.

The spell is to be cast tomorrow.

“I suppose,” he says distantly. 

Bull cups water in his hands and pours it over Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian takes in a shuddering breath.

“We both know I only got a few more years left moving around without help,” he says softly. “Never liked the idea.”

“Don’t,” says Dorian harshly. “Do not try and make me feel better.”

Bull says nothing, knowing to let Dorian lash out. He pours water on his other shoulder.

When he speaks next, his voice is low and intimate, a tone shared only with Dorian.

“Promise me you’re gonna go on after this. Promise me you’ll be happy.”

“ _ Amatus _ —”

“Promise.”

Dorian turns to face Bull. He realizes Bull has removed his eyepatch, exposing the knot of scars that serves as his left eye. He searches his face, and sees that Bull is connected and present and vulnerable. He is not afraid. He is ready. Dorian’s chest tightens.

This was happening.

“I will try,” he whispers.

“For Felicia.”

“It’s all for Felicia.”

Bull smiles softly. “And if the rest of Thedas gets to live as a result, well, hey. A win for Thedas.”

Dorians breathes a laugh. “I suppose,” he says.

Bull leans forward and presses his lips against Dorian’s, kissing him carefully, like he is breakable, like he is precious. The water shifts around them. “Hey,” he says. “We’ll see each other again, right?”

“Before I stab all of you in the heart again, yes,” says Dorian, sickly glib.

“Yeah, alright,” says Bull. He kisses Dorian again, this time with a questioning hunger. “But you’re not seeing the whole picture here.”

“I am seeing plenty of pictures,” says Dorian, but there is less bite to it.

Bull leans forward and whispers directly into Dorian’s ear. Dorian can feel Bull’s grin against his skin.

“We’re gonna be all limber again.”

And finally, Dorian laughs with real mirth. It begins in his throat and travels through his entire body, warming him from the inside. Bull joins and soon they are gasping, water spilling over the edge of the tub as their laughter moves them.

When they are calm, Bull runs his hands through Dorian’s long, silver hair, smiling fondly. “Still got a little life to us after all,” he says.

“Quite,” says Dorian.

Bull kisses him again. They drain the tub. Bull leads him to the bedroom.

Bull pleasures him for hours, a rarity in their old age. Dorian alternates between warm laughter and gasps of pleasure and sobs. Bull holds him through it all, every emotion, every whim. It is gentle and slow and forgiving and kind. It ends with Bull inside Dorian, the position well worn between them, a ritual dedicated to their time together.

They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, tears on their cheeks, two old men desperately in love and forced to say goodbye.

—

Bull’s last memory is this:

The spell takes place in the tower where it was conceived. Dorian fills it with every power-enhancing glyph he knows, most of which require his own blood. He is pale and weak before it has even begun. He says to pay him no mind. He will not be weak for long.

He takes Fenris first.

Then Sera.

Then Lavellan. 

They whisper words to each other. Bull does not listen in. It’s not his place.

The room smells of copper and the Fade and death. 

Soon, Dorian’s eyes are filled with dark red blood, sclerae and all. He is engulfed in something black that moves like smoke. Bull realizes it is the Fade, but corrupted. 

In his hands is the  _ tempus fulcrumi, _ the green pendant once used by Gereon Alexius to wield time itself. It, too, is surrounded by a cloud of black. Dorian is pouring his power into it. Hawke is behind him, suspended in air, drawing that same power back into her. She has forgotten to create clothes. It is appropriate. They are touching something primal, soaking themselves in greed and power and love and life.

Dorian arrives in front of Bull. 

He’s surprised to see that, in spite of his altered eyes, tears are rushing down his cheeks. The bloodied knife slips from his grip, clattering against the floor. Bull picks it up, calm enough for them both, and presses it back into his hand.

“I’ll find you,” he says, bringing Dorian close to him.

“I’ll find you,” Dorian whispers.

“I’ll find you,” Bull says.

The knife slides in easily, hot and painless.

“I’ll find you,” says Dorian.

Bull leans forward, weakening, losing control of his body.

“I’ll find you,” he says.

Bull’s memories stop here.

—

Dorian’s memories continue past the ritual.

He does not like them much.


End file.
